


One More Hot Chocolate Vigil

by pinstripedJackalope



Series: House Voltron [2]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Allura (Voltron) Has Depression, Blood, Chronic Illness, Dreams and Nightmares, Female Pronouns for Pidge | Katie Holt, Foster Care, Foster Dad Shiro (Voltron), Gen, Human Allura (Voltron), Hurt/Comfort, I'M ADDING PICTURES, Illustrated, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Intersex Keith (Voltron), Lance (Voltron) Has ADHD, Lance (Voltron) Has Bipolar Disorder, Mind the Tags, Misgendering, Multiple Sclerosis, Past Abuse, Past Adam/Shiro (Voltron), Platonic Cuddling, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pregnancy complications, Rating May Change, Recreational Drug Use, References to Illness, Shiro (Voltron) Has MS - Multiple Sclerosis, Shiro (Voltron) Is Chronically Ill, Shiro (Voltron) is a Mess, Space Dad Shiro (Voltron), Teen Pregnancy, Trans Keith (Voltron), Trans Pidge | Katie Holt, Transphobia, Undiagnosed Mental Health Issues, Vomiting, i'm writing from the seat of my pants here, past trauma, pregnant Keith, sorry guys there's gonna be a lot of tags, starting with the heavy hitters:, talking about suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-03
Updated: 2018-11-01
Packaged: 2018-12-23 07:11:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 37
Words: 106,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11984793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinstripedJackalope/pseuds/pinstripedJackalope
Summary: Shiro has lived a challenging life.  The good news is that he always rises to that challenge.  It happened when he was taken out of his parents home and put into foster care.  It happened again when he lost his right arm in a car wreck.  And now it's going to happen yet again, because he is going to take care of Keith Kogane even if it ends him.





	1. Day One: Down

**Author's Note:**

> So again... mind the tags. The first chapter or so are pretty mild, but keep the tags in mind.

Shiro has been fostering kids for nearly seven years, and he still hasn’t gotten used to the sheer number of phone calls that have to be made.  He’s not expecting one tonight—it’s late already, damnit—but when the number comes up on his phone he instantly knows what the call is about.  The local agency has been planning to transfer a kid into his care, but he wasn’t supposed to come for another month.

Unfortunately, the tired voice on the other end says, he/she ran away from his/her last home and maybe it’s best to just move him/her/them now.  Shiro frowns—Lance, Hunk, Pidge, and Allura sit around him, waiting with various levels of interest.  Allura picks at her nails, chewing gum.  Pidge is on her laptop, but perks up at one of the questions Shiro asks.  Lance is leading Hunk in some sort of slapping game that he drops as Shiro hangs up.

“What was that face about?” Lance asks immediately.

Honestly, Shiro isn’t really sure.  He’s only got the basics—the kid is at the hospital, the social worker is babysitting, and apparently no one knows how to ask a seventeen-year-old what name they go by.  “I’ve never heard someone stumble so hard over pronouns,” he says, scratching at his jaw with his prosthesis.  “We knew the kid was trans but now I have no idea what their actual pronouns are.”

Pidge snorts.  “Typical,” she mutters.  She’s been a ‘she’ in the system for two years now, but that’s only because she wouldn’t have it any other way and knew how to make it so.

Shiro snorts back, the lingo of the house.  “Anyway, guess we’ll find out tonight because they’re coming early.” 

“What?  Why, what happened?” Hunk demands, while Allura sighs heavily. 

Shiro sighs as well, runs a hand down his face.  It’s late and he wasn’t really prepared for this but he’ll take it in swing.  Well, best he can, at any rate.  He’s no Coran but he can manage this, he thinks.  The good news is that at least two of his four current kids seem curious and not angry, and one out of four is actually excited, bouncing on his heels.  Allura just seems bored, but he doesn’t expect much else from her.

“Don’t really know.”  He sighs again, just to drive the point home.  “Aight kids, I’m gonna go pick them up.  Hunk, you’re with me.  Everyone else: you know the drill.  Check in with each other if you’re not gonna check in with me.”  He gives Allura a little flick and she bats him off, but he’s rewarded with a friendly pop of her gum before she goes and slams the door to her room.

Out in the truck, Hunk settles next to him.  He has to admit, Hunk’s presence calms his nerves a little.  He takes Hunk with him now when he picks up new kids.  It’s partly because it makes Hunk nervous to wait at home with the others, and partly because Hunk seems to have a sixth sense about which kids are going to be too troublesome.  Shiro thinks back to Lotor and Nyma.  Beezor was okay, but he came as a package deal with Nyma and… yeah Nyma didn’t work out.

At the hospital, Shiro goes to find the social worker.  It’s only half lit—every other light down the hallway has been turned off for the night.  She lets him stand under a flickering fluorescent as he signs some paperwork before she takes him to see the kid.  He’s not sure exactly why the kid is in the hospital instead of at a police station, especially since the only thing anyone seems to know is that they ran away.  Apparently, they haven’t felt like talking to hospital staff, but there was some reason the cops thought they should bring them to the hospital.  No one has really figured it out—they probably don’t want to, it’s almost a waste of time.  Shiro is half convinced from their fumbling that the cop saw the word ‘intersex’ in the kid's police file and just panicked.  In any case, there hasn’t been much cooperation from the kid and it seems like they think the best thing to do is leave the kid to Shiro.

Shiro, he finds, is fine with that.

When he finally catches a glimpse, the kid is sitting curled up in a chair, knees almost to their chest. 

 

 

Hands with dirty, fingerless gloves clutch each other in front of their feet.  They have scruffy hair that curls against their shoulders, and that doesn’t help Shiro with the pronoun situation at all.  He can, however, tell that the kid is east Asian—probably Korean, but he needs a better look at the kids face before he can tell.  That’s exciting—none of his fosters so far have been Asian, and he’s secretly been waiting for a kid who has an origin story more like his own.  Though he will never, ever admit that.  He wonders if the kid also came from a family who immigrated to America from the far east.  His heart falls imagining parents too deep in poverty and a drug habit to take care of their kids.

He stops pondering as the social worker starts introductions.

“Shiro, this is—”

“Keith.”

That clears things up a little.  Keith glares at the social worker from behind his knees, his voice intentionally lower than is probably comfortable.  The social worker takes his outburst in stride.  “And this is Shiro,” she finishes warmly, laying her hand on Shiro’s shoulder.  Hunk peeks around Shiro.  “Oh, hello, Hunk!  I didn’t realize you were here, too.  Honey, meet—”

“Keith,” Keith says again, not missing a beat.  It seems like it’s a habit.  The social worker’s smile strains a little.

“—And _he’s_ going to stay with you guys.”  She bites her way around the pronoun, and the words ‘until we figure out what to do with him’ are heavily implied, lingering on the air.  Shiro coughs.

“Hello, Keith,” he tries.  He gets a grunt, and the barest flicker of a glance, before Keith focuses his eyes where Hunk is hiding.  Props to him, Shiro guesses.  Most of them make at least some kind of comment at the prosthetic hand, but Keith doesn’t even seem inclined to acknowledge him at all, much less the arm.

“There are a few more kids at home,” Shiro says, nudging Hunk forward with said arm.  Hunk looks big, especially with the muscle-tanks he sports, but he manages a soft look and an awkward half of a bow that gives away his true colors.  Keith stares at him with huge, dark eyes.

“How many?” Keith asks.  He takes Hunk in in one swift motion, as if to strategize the best way to get past him if need be.

“Three more, but you’ll barely see Allura.  Don’t worry, it’s not too tight of a fit.”  Shiro smiles and tries to exude benevolence.  He figures it probably won’t work—he’s never been a saint, not like Coran—but he’s not above trying.

At least the kid doesn’t bolt.  That’s happened once.  Not fun, especially not this late at night.  Keith grunts, and in one swift movement he shoves past the social worker to grab a backpack that’s sitting in the corner.  He stands at the door, waiting, obviously ready to go.

“Is there anything else?” Shiro asks the social worker, trying for politeness.  She shakes her head with a small smile.  The way her eyes seem to droop is in tired defeat—she’s had a late night, and even through the tension humming between her and Keith, there’s a tiny bit of hope that this will work out… and a whole lot of resignation for their eventual failure.

Shiro tries not to roll his eyes as he guides the kids back out to the truck.

 

* * *

 

 

The truck is a little tight, despite what he told Keith earlier.  There’s a minivan in the garage for group adventures, but the cost of gas has kneed Shiro in the gut one too many times.  The truck was a gift from Coran when Coran stopped driving, and whenever he can get away with it, Shiro crams the kids into the bucket seat and hopes for the best.

Tonight, Hunk is scrunched up in the middle, careful to give Keith space.  Shiro tries not to elbow him when he shifts, but he knows Hunk already forgives him.  Keith, for his part, just leans into the window and watches the streetlights pass by.

At home, Keith is out of the truck even before Shiro cuts the engine.  He slings his backpack over his shoulder and treks to the edge of the driveway, looking both ways down the suburban street, and Shiro half expects him to take off walking right then and there.  After a moment, though, he just turns and waits for Shiro to get the door.

Inside, Shiro counts heads.  Pidge hasn’t moved from her perch on the armchair—he didn’t really expect her to, but it’s reassuring all the same.  Lance is lying on the back of the couch, talking as fast as he possibly can, surrounded by wads of paper that Pidge has no doubt been throwing at him.  Shiro glances down the hallway—Allura’s door is open, no one visible inside.

“Where’s Allura?” he asks, already regretting the answer.

“She left.  Sleepover at Rolo’s.  She said it was so that we don’t overwhelm the new guy but you know how she is.”  Pidge adjusts her glasses, letting the lamp next to her cause a glare that makes Keith squint and turn away.  She studies him with quick, practiced eyes, dissecting everything she can see.  It’s not unlike the look he gave Hunk, but her eyes are much, much sharper.

Lance springs over the arm of the couch and scoops her into a hug, crooning, “but we stayed to see the new guy, didn’t we, Pidgey?”

“Lance you’re gonna get zapped again if—” Hunk starts, but before he can even finish the warning there’s a high-pitched buzzing noise and Lance leaps into the air with a yowl.

“PIDGEY!  NO!  BAD PIDGEY!” he yells, rapidly shaking his hand. 

Pidge just smiles, the hard, sadistic one that means she’s not gonna stop because she enjoys it a little too much.  “It’s your own fault,” she sings.  She raises her hand to show Keith the prank ring on her finger—it’s been modified to discharge a higher voltage than is probably legal, and she’s taken to using it whenever Lance invades her space.  Shiro can’t find the heart to take it from her.  What if she’s legitimately assaulted some day?  They all know Lance is harmless, but _what if_?

Still, he figures he’s going to have to talk to both of them about this.

Especially when Pidge lights up and says, much too friendly, “I have another one if you want it, new guy!”

“No, none of that.  Not on his first day,” Shiro says sternly.  He tries to move introductions as quickly as possible, but soon enough Pidge and Hunk are arguing about the electrical wiring in the bathroom and whether or not it’s polite to warn a new member of the household that the top outlet is slightly lower voltage than the bottom.  Pidge seems to be of the opinion that it’s live and learn, while Hunk is adamant that it’s only common courtesy to warn a guy.  Lance, for the past ten minutes, has just been staring at Keith, obviously making him fidgety.  One of them is ignoring near constant text messages, the buzzing noise drilling into Shiro’s brain.

Abruptly it’s all enough.  “Bedtime,” he says, making them scatter off the couch.  Pidge gleefully sprints toward Allura’s bed, taking advantage.  “Keith, let me show you around while they’re occupied.  Do you want some food?”

And suddenly a late night phone call turned hospital visit becomes just another night in House Voltron.


	2. Day Six: Down?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keith has a secret, Hunk is stressed, Shiro needs sleep, and why is life like this?

It’s a little less than a week later when Shiro is woken up in the dead of the night by Lance.  He grunts, because Lance decided the best way to wake him up was to sit on his chest, which is not the most comfortable.  Lance pays no mind.

“New kid is trying to climb out a window.”

“Fuck,” Shiro says, wheezing, before he realizes what he said.  “Uh… heck.  Go stall him.”

“On it!” Lance says cheerily, apparently unfazed by the swearing.  Shiro flashes back to scared little eleven-year-old Lance who would gasp and point whenever anyone so much as said the word ‘crap’.  He mourns the fact that Lance, sixteen now, has accepted vulgarity into his life.

Shiro rubs his eyes as he makes his way down the hall, bumping into furniture in his hurry.  Honestly, he’s been expecting something like this.  They’ve been trying to get Keith to go to school—he missed too much of his senior year to graduate, but he arrived during the last push of the school year and Shiro thought it might be a good idea to just set up some rules and get him used to going to school regularly, especially considering he’s going to need to take summer classes.  The problem is that no matter what they do, no matter how annoying Lance is, they can’t get him out of his room.

Shiro tries not to feel guilty, slinking into the kitchen.  Hunk has already beat him to the microwave—two mugs are spinning lazily on the plate.  Shiro’s shoulders slump in relief.

“Lance woke me up first,” Hunk explains, noticing Shiro coming up behind him.

“Actually,” Pidge says, from the couch, “I was the first to know.”

“Yeah, but you were already awake,” Hunk snorts.

Pidge ignores that.  “Shiro, Keith is seventeen, right?”

“Yeah,” he says, running a hand down his face.  “Why?”

“Just curious about why he hasn’t gotten himself emancipated.”

“He’s probably waiting to age out of the system,” Hunk says.  “Why go through all the legal trouble when you can just grow up?”

“To each their own, I guess.  Personally, I’m planning to hack into the database and erase myself from the state system,” Pidge says, and Hunk nods approvingly at that while Shiro nails her with a Look.  “What?” she asks, innocent.

“We’re going to talk about that tomorrow,” Shiro promises, and Pidge groans.  The microwave dings and in a second Hunk scoops out the mugs, carefully measuring out the hot coco mix that he makes himself.  He drops a couple of spoons in and hands them over, before reaching for four more mugs, because he’s used to this procedure by now.  Allura peeks out her door at the sound of the microwave closing again and Shiro smiles on the way past, both mugs carefully cradled in his good hand.  The whole house is officially up.

Lance, it seems, has been successful on his mission to deter Keith from leaving out the window.  The lights in the room are still off, but two voices can clearly be heard on the other side of the closed door, angry whispers.  Somehow it hasn’t escalated to blows, but Shiro is pretty sure that has less to do with Lance’s methods and more to do with the fact that Keith is probably trying to keep this quiet and not get caught by the Adult.  Well, too late now.  Shiro jiggles the handle with his elbow and throws the door wide open, the light from the living room seeping in.

The window is only half open, and Keith is crouched under it with Lance standing over him, hands on hips.  “See?  Maternal instincts of a middle aged Hispanic mom, what did I tell you?  Told you you’d get _caught_ , is what.”

 

 

Shiro neglects to mention that it was actually Lance who ratted him out.  Let Keith think he’s dealing with the supernatural, might do him some favors.  It’s hard taking care of kids, sue him.

Keith, unfortunately, doesn’t just look like a kid who got caught sneaking out.  His face is pale and his eyes are huge in his face, darting from Lance to Shiro like he’s waiting for one of them to grab him.  He eyes the window for a moment as if calculating whether or not he can still get through it before he’s snatched, and Shiro sighs.  He tries not to act menacing as he settles on the bed, putting down one of the mugs on the dresser and casually sipping from the other.

 

 

It takes a moment, but Keith silently deflates, his tensed muscles relaxing.  Lance looks smug, until Shiro makes a shooing gesture at him with his stump.

“Fine.  Call me if you need me!” Lance sings, skipping out the room.

Shiro doesn’t spare him even a blink.  “Come sit down,” he says instead, leaning over and patting the bed next to him with his elbow, the mug still balanced in his good hand.  “I have hot chocolate for you.”

Keith stands up from his crouch but doesn’t move closer.  “I’m lactose intolerant,” he says, staring at Shiro’s mug.  Shiro looks down and internally curses.

“Lactose intolerant,” Hunk moans from the hallway.  “God, I should have _known_.  Give me five minutes, we have that almond milk Allura likes.”

“Stop listening at the door!” Shiro says.  There’s a scramble as at least three bodies push away.

Keith, meanwhile, hasn’t stopped staring.  “Are you going to punish me?” he finally asks.

Shiro shrugs.

That doesn’t sit well.  “If you’re going to do something then fucking do it,” Keith snarls, his face hardening.  He half turns and bites his lip, hard, arms crossed over his chest.  Just like he expects to be hit.

If that hasn’t broken the heart of everyone that has ever met him, then Shiro is pretty sure they don’t have hearts.  He shakes his head.  “We’re going to talk about it, but not until you sit down and have some hot chocolate,” Shiro says, trying to be placating.  He can tell that it’s not working in the least—Keith is still on edge, nearly vibrating in his boots, a step away from fight or flight. 

It’s a few long, tense moments of them staring at each other from opposite sides of the room before Hunk creeps in with an apology, delivering the new mug and covertly taking the unwanted one and backing out again with a, “I was never here.”

Shiro looks pointedly at the mug, then the bed.  A moment later Keith throws himself down, curling up with a pillow against his stomach and his dirty boots on the blanket.  Shiro decides to let it slide—he’s picking his battles, he reassures himself.  It’s a wise thing to do with this one.

He puts his hot chocolate down for a second and hands over the new mug.  He can’t help but be pleased when Keith takes it and can’t contain the look of wonder that crosses his face when he smells the contents.  Yeah, Hunk is that good.  Shiro’s chest inflates with pride.

Now, as promised, he has a Talk to have.  It starts easy enough.

“Where were you going?”

“Out.”

Judging by Keith’s surly expression, the easy part is now over.  Shiro trucks onward.

“Were you meeting someone?”

“No.”

“Going to buy something?”

Keith stays silent.

“Is it drugs?” Shiro asks, suddenly feeling so, so tired.  He remembers a year ago when Allura convinced Lance to smoke with her and the poor boy wound up coughing so hard that he threw up in the garbage disposal.  Thankfully none of them have ever tried anything harder—except Lotor, but Lotor was only around for three weeks, so Shiro pretends like he doesn’t count.

But Keith surprises him.  “No, I… need something from the store.”

“If that’s the case, why didn’t you ask?”  Shiro takes a leisurely sip of his drink, carefully watching the kid beside him.

“I didn’t… I couldn’t just… I _didn’t want you to see_ ,” he says, quiet, curling up tighter.

Well, that sure is something that Shiro doesn’t know what to make of.  He contemplates for a long moment.  “Can this wait for morning?” he asks.

“I…” Keith picks at his sleeve.  He looks about a step away from crying.  “I haven’t…”

And there he goes.  The tears drip down his face and he is none-too-kind about scrubbing them off.  Shiro shifts to set down his mug and this time Keith outright _flinches_.  Shiro backs away, hand up.  “Okay.  It’s okay.  If you need to go now, it’s okay.  I can take you.  I’m used to being a little sleep deprived, that’s no problem.”

He must have calculated correctly—that Keith is being sincere, that he really just does want to buy something, that he’s not just trying to find an excuse to go meet someone on the street—because after a few long moments Keith wipes his face aggressively and nods.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles into his pillow.

“It’s okay.  Please, though—just ask next time?”

Keith nods, and when Shiro gets up to fetch his shoes and a hoodie (screw anything but pajama pants, though) he sees the boy quickly chug his hot chocolate in one long, desperate gulp.  Shiro pretends not to notice.

A moment later they’re off, with one request for sour gummy worms (Pidge), salt and vinegar anything (Allura), one of those ‘wicked cool lighters at the register’ (no, Lance), and, if they can swing it, a lactose free cheese substitute because, “I can’t cook for this household without it, Shiro.”  Forgetting the fact that Hunk isn’t allowed to spend all his time in the kitchen when he’s supposed to be doing his homework.  Hunk is unperturbed when Shiro brings this up.

Keith is quiet all the way there, but just as Shiro is getting out of the car at the convenience store he pipes up.

“Please, can you… let me get it?  Alone?”

Shiro winces internally, but forces himself to just shrug on the outside.  “I’m just gonna pick up the snacks and then you can meet me in front, okay?”

“Okay,” Keith says, too soft, afraid.  Of what, Shiro isn’t sure, but he’s willing to trust the kid for the night.  What’s the worst he can do?  Rob the pharmacy?

…That was a bad thing to think, and Shiro has to grit his teeth to stop from going after his charge.  He still has no idea what this is about, but maybe if he plays it cool, Keith will come to him of his own accord and just tell him.  Shiro just has to… be cool until then.

Be _cool_ , Shiro.  He’s just now realizing that he forgot the prosthesis—he must have been using muscle memory to shift gears with his elbow, god he’s out of it—and by the time he pays he’s trying to calculate how many one-armed men could possibly be in the city, just in case the cops get his description as an accessory to armed robbery.  He fiddles with the knotted sleeve of his hoodie (it’s the one he wears at home after the prosthesis comes off, he has no use for most of the right sleeve).

Of course, now that he thinks about it, the prosthesis would probably be more identifying than just the stump.  It’s pretty high tech, and it’s not every day that you see a purple robotic arm.

He spots a dark head of hair near the entrance, nervously fidgeting with something about the same size as toothpaste that’s tightly wrapped in a plastic bag.  Shiro doesn’t even get a peek as he walks over—Keith shoves it into a pocket as soon as he sees Shiro looking.  Shiro tries not to let it get to him.  At least it’s not stolen—he clearly paid for it.

“Ready to go?” he asks, and Keith just nods.

At home he distributes food and ignores Lance’s whining.  He wants to stay up a little longer, just to keep an eye on everything, but he sits down on his bed and suddenly he’s out like a light.

 

* * *

 

 

“Shiro?”

God, he’s tired of getting woken up.  If this keeps on he might have to call out of work tomorrow.  He really doesn’t want to—he’s called out a few times this week already, staying home to try and coax Keith out of his room.  Allura is always home—she’s taking a gap year or two right now—but she can’t be trusted to not be a bad influence when no one else is home.

Speaking of.  “Lance, can’t it wait?” he groans into his pillow.  It has GOT to be like four in the morning, what is wrong with that kid?  Well, he knows what’s wrong with him—bipolar disorder and adhd is what’s wrong with him, he can’t really help it when he’s awake at weird hours, but _still_.

There’s no answer from the doorway.  Shiro pauses to hope that Lance got distracted and left, but when he rolls over there’s still someone there.

Unfortunately, it’s not Lance.  Shiro sits up immediately.  “Keith?” he calls, knowing by the silhouette that it’s either Keith or Pidge, and Pidge never comes to him first.

A panicky breath in the dark, and then the figure ducks back out, slamming the door.  He hears quick footsteps down the hall, another door, and then, completely out of place, a retch.

A million things go through his mind as he jumps out of bed and accidentally slides on the floor.  Pillows scatter in his wake.  The fears start small— _was it the hot chocolate after all_?—and quickly hike into panic territory— _oh god he bought something over the counter and tried to kill himself_.

His hand is _shaking_ as he slams full-body into the bathroom door, startling Pidge who had been dozing on the couch with her laptop.  “Keith—” he tries, but then his throat shrinks to straw-size and he just blindly fumbles for the handle.

He barely stops when he gets through the door, but the sight of Keith still on his feet slows the hammer of his heart just a little.

“Sorry,” Keith pants, hands on his knees, leaning over the toilet.  “I’m sorry.”

“What is it?  What’s wrong?  What do you need?” Shiro asks.  His hand hovers, raised half in the awkward territory between them, half in blind panic.  He glances at the door—the only one brave enough to eavesdrop when someone is throwing up is Pidge, and she hangs in the hallway, sheepish.

“I guess maybe I should have told you that he’s been getting sick right about this time every night?” she says, tilting her head.  Keith heaves.  “Honestly I thought he was just getting drunk.”

“Keith, what’s going on?” Shiro asks, sharper than he means to.  Keith coughs, and Shiro can’t resist anymore—he walks over and gently strokes the hair back from the boy’s face.

Keith flinches back.  “Sorry—” he chokes, and slaps a hand over his mouth, obviously forcing down more heaves.  His voice squeezes through his fingers.  “Sorry, sorry, sorry—”

“Shiro…” Pidge says, quietly.  “I think you should let me deal with this.”

Shiro can only gesture blankly from one to the other for a moment, trying to find something to say that makes any sense.  Finally he settles on, “tell me if I need to call an ambulance.”  Pidge nods.  She knows.  They’ve had a if-this-happens-call-911 list since Lotor.  Shiro retreats to the living room, and it’s not until he’s off his feet that he realizes how bad his knees are shaking.

“What the literal fuck?” Allura asks, eyeing the bathroom as she comes down the hall.  The boys are clinging to each other at her elbow, Hunk a sallow, off color.

“Yeah,” Lance breathes, talking as if he can barely contain the questions.  “Did he—was it like—was there— _is he throwing up hot chocolate_?”

Hunks head whips over, his eyes wide and _guilty_.  Shiro sighs.  “Tell you when I know,” he says.  He glances at the nearest clock—it’s later than he thought.  Almost six.  God, what a night.  “Everyone go back to bed, you need to get ready for school soon.”

“Shiro, it’s Sunday,” Allura says.  She can’t help the bit of glee that escapes, it seems—Shiro glares and then deflates into the cushions.

“So it is, so it is…” he mutters to himself.  It’s officially been seven days since they went and got Keith.  Seven days of stubborn, angry glares and, apparently, early-morning vomiting.  Why did he ever sign up for this?  He wants to cash in, move to Vermont.

Then Allura plops down next to him, resting her curly hair on his shoulder.  It’s damaged from being bleached about six too many times, but she’s unconcerned.  “More hot chocolate,” she orders, and Lance springs away to comply, leaving Hunk standing awkwardly in the middle of the room, his hands tentatively over his ears.

“Tell me when it’s over,” he moans.  Shiro nods.

They’re settling in for their second hot chocolate vigil of the night when Pidge creeps in, hiding something behind her back.  “Shiro, I need to show you something,” she says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ;D  
> Listen, I'm gonna try really hard to be good with updates. I'm also waaay open to suggestions! I have no idea where this story ends.


	3. Week Two: FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The secret comes out, triggers are had, and Shiro comes to a very important understanding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where some of those tags come in.

It’s been a week since the pregnancy test.  A week since Shiro walked into the teeny, cluttered bathroom and heard the words, “please don’t hit me,” from Keith’s lips, dull and unminced.  A week since he asked to give the boy a hug and Keith just cried.  A week since sleeping with Pidge on the couch, Lance watching over Keith as everyone else slept well into the day.  A week since life got ten times more complicated, like a maze folding over on itself.

School will be out for the summer in one more week, and Lance, bless him, has been getting through his stress by trying to eavesdrop on every single conversation that doesn’t involve him.  He could smell that he was out of the loop, and Shiro is exhausted from trying to keep him and the others off of Keith, but he knows Keith is ten times worse.  Especially since he now knows why Keith hasn’t wanted to get out of bed.  The nausea, it seems, has been unrelenting.  That plus more doctors’ appointments than Shiro had when he lost his arm makes for a very grumpy boy.

The cat is, fortunately or unfortunately, out of the bag now.

“Wait so… you’re really expecting a baby?” Lance asks.  Shiro gears up for a beatdown on the kitchen table, but it seems Keith is too tired for that.

“No, I’m expecting bigfoot,” he mumbles.

Pidge snorts into her coffee.  Shiro contemplates Keith. 

He’s not really eating his cereal, mostly just staring into the bowl.  Whether or not he’s really come to terms with the situation is up in the air at the moment—a late night run for supplies last night plus the early morning trip to the doctor seem to have completely wiped him of his usual coat of anger, and without the anger Shiro has no idea how to read him.

Not that reading the anger was easy, but at least he could tell the difference between ‘natural defensive insults’ and ‘Lance pushing too far’. 

Which would be a really nice thing to be able to determine right now.  They broke the news to the other kids this morning on accident, and Lance has been relentless since.  Pidge can be tactful, but Lance?  Shiro just wants to know how close Keith is to exploding, and he doesn’t think that’s too much to ask.

“Are you _keeping the baby_?” Lance demands, aghast.  He says it the same way an old religious woman might.  He’s been staring non-stop at Keith for the last half an hour.  “You’ve gotta, like, get _married_ or something—"

“Lance, your catholic school is showing,” Pidge says, and Lance gasps dramatically.

“Well excuse me for being concerned!”

Hunk, caught right between them, raises one feeble hand in an attempt at diversion.  “I’m glad you’re just having a baby and not, like, withdrawing from alcohol, Keith.”

“Screw that,” Lance snorts, digging his bitten fingernails into the table.  “Hey Mullet, do you even know who the dad—?”

“Lance,” Shiro says in warning.

“Fine, the _other parent_ —”

“LANCE.”

That, finally, shuts him up.  Not a moment too soon, because Keith seems to have finally woken up, his dead-eyed stare slowly morphing into the biting, kill-you-with-eye-contact glare that everyone knows well by this point.  He leans forward in his chair, a snarl on his lips, and Lance starts pushing backwards out of his own seat, his hands raised in surrender. 

Lance doesn’t need to know, but they’ve talked about all of this.  They’ve talked about this a lot, actually.  What Keith’s genetics are like, what a pregnancy will probably look like on his body, with his age, his genitals, his hormones… Shiro knows more about Keith’s body than he’s ever wanted to know about a minor.  The big problem is the intersex thing.  Underdeveloped breasts, testosterone in the body—and the part where apparently when Keith was a baby he had a surgery to make him look more feminine, and because of the scar tissue, he’s definitely going to need a C-section.  Everything about that conversation was an exercise in keeping Keith calm—he hadn’t even KNOWN about the surgery.  Shiro had tried very, very hard to be the voice of reason in that situation.

The consensus is that Keith is about seven weeks along, he’s going to carry as close to term as he can using hormone treatments, they’ll decide what to do with the baby later, and that _no one gets to know who the other parent is_.

So far, Shiro has only gotten one worried phone call from the social worker asking if they need to move Keith again.  Shiro shut that down as quickly as he humanly could.  No one is making this boy move again, not unless Keith explicitly asks, because FUCK every person who has ever been in Keith’s life before this.

Shiro really, honestly means that.  He’s never been more pissed in his life.  He has a terrified, sick, traumatized teenager on his hands, and none of this is okay.

He doesn’t realize how tense he is until his own father-figure walks through the front door and slaps him on the back.  “Good morning, Number One!” Coran says cheerfully, his nearly-white mustache twitching upward.

Keith stares as the rest of the kids jump out of their seats and tackle Coran to the ground.  “Who the fuck are you?” he asks after a moment, and Shiro snorts into his coffee.

“Keith, meet Co—” he starts, but Lance cuts him off.

“GRAND FOSTER DADDY!” he shouts, clinging to one of Coran’s still-buffer-than-you arms.

“—Coran, the man who fostered me when I was your age,” Shiro finishes.  Lance whines that his wording was cooler, but he’s shaken off a moment later when Coran goes to stand in front of Keith.

 

 

“Hm,” he says, twirling his moustache.  He takes great pride in it—Keith seems mesmerized by the delicate curlicues on the edges, a common response.  “Five foot five, if I’m not mistaken.  That makes you what… Number Four?”

“Does not!” Lance hollers.  “I’m Number Four, and there’s no way Mullet over there is taller than I am—”

“Lance, do you even remember your own name?” Pidge asks.  Lance puffs up, but she snidely cuts across him.  “Hunk and Allura are the same height, they’re Two A and Two B.  You’re Number Three.”

He deflates.  “Oh.  Right.  I knew that.  Still makes you loser Number Five, though.”

“Proud of it,” she says dismissively, returning to her laptop.  There is a bet with a rather large pot about how tall she’ll end up—she’s a scrawny, twig-like fourteen-year-old and the possibilities are _endless_.  Shiro is personally betting that she’ll make it to at least Lance-height, if not taller—he met her father once, way back when he was still in school, and the man was of a decent height.  Of course, that was a long time ago—before Dr. Holt went missing and way before Pidge came under his wing.

Keith, laughably, still has a deer-in-the-headlights look as he stares up at Coran.  “What?” he manages to say.  Eloquent.

“Oh, I’ve ranked you all by height,” Coran says cheerfully.  “My original batch of fosters had a different system—Shiro here was Code Brown for that one—” Shiro grunts, “—but seeing as House Voltron was a new, different thing, I changed it up.”

“…And House Voltron is…?” Keith says, squinting.

“My idea!” Lance says, sitting up from the floor and putting his chin on the table with a wide grin.  “I was the first one here, aside from the Princess over there,” he gestures at Allura, who gives a grunt very similar to Shiro’s, “and it was _obvious_ that we had a likeness to the old cartoon—”

“By likeness he means he wouldn’t stop wearing that god-awful coat,” Hunk supplies.

“—not true, and you weren’t even there so shut your heathen mouth, but anyway, it just came to me one day that we could totally just BE team Voltron—”

“He broke a picture frame trying to swing his ‘bayard’,” Shiro laughs.  Keith’s eyes flick back and forth, trying to keep track of the conversation, and Pidge laughs, too, joining in.

“—god are you all just here to rain on my parade, ANWAY, the point is that it just _fit_ us and it took no time at all to get everyone to join in and pick a lion—”

“And a nickname,” Hunk says. 

“My name isn’t really Pidge, you’ll never know my real name.”  Pidge’s eyebrows wriggle.

“—jesus CHRIST Katie would you shut up and let me talk?” Lance yells.

The retaliation is quick and brutal.  One moment Lance is leaning over the table on his elbows, and the next he’s lying underneath it nursing his stinging hand, yelling.

“Okay, that’s enough,” Shiro decides.  Sometime during the screaming Keith slipped away, as has Coran, and Shiro has a good guess where they are.  He leaves Hunk trying to mediate between the youngsters (Hunk is the same age as Lance but good god… maturity via age is meaningless) and slips down the hallway.

Just as suspected, he finds Keith in the bathroom, Coran rubbing his back.  This is the first time Shiro has seen Keith allow anyone to touch him, so he hovers outside, watching closely.  Coran is a teen-whisperer, and Shiro watches the magic happen every chance he gets.

“Ah, the miracle of childbirth,” Coran is saying.  “I once was allowed to help birth a zebra at our local zoo—never seen anything so beautiful in my life.”

“I just want the puking to stop,” Keith moans, hiccupping.

“No worries, my boy, I’ve got quite a few tips and tricks for that,” Coran says brightly.  Shiro feels his shoulders relax the final bit—Coran is pretty new to the whole idea of ‘transgenderism’ and he hasn’t had the opportunity to pop quiz him.  Coran passed, anyway.  God, Shiro loves him.  Truly a master of context clues.

Keith is quiet for a moment.  Then, contemplatively, he asks, “Can you fix panic attacks, too?”

The question floors Shiro.  The surge of anger he feels has started to become all-too-familiar.  It’s the same kind of anger he gets when he thinks about semi-trucks who try to turn left across heavy traffic.  His arm throbs at the memory.  Every time Keith lets something go from behind his borders, his walls, Shiro feels like he’s suffocating in red.

“I can try my best,” Coran says, reassuringly, and Shiro decides that’s enough snooping for the day.

 

* * *

 

 

Everyone is sprawled out in the living room, statues amidst a rising tide of paper, when Coran finishes his talk with Keith.  The old Irish man takes his leave with his usual cheer—“Adios, Numbers One through Five!”—and leaves nothing behind but faint mirth and the scent of moustache wax.  Keith sips at a mug of ginger tea that Hunk insisted on making, keeping a wary eye on every limb that flails too close to him.  Shiro has begun to notice that every single item of clothing he owns is black and/or stained, and he’s not really sure with what, but he’s in a good mood so he stops thinking about it and fetches some crackers for Keith to nibble on.  He’s also beginning to think not all of the nausea comes from the morning sickness—one too many times Keith has left a particularly loud argument to go throw up.  He stops thinking about that one, too, but carefully stores it away for later.

After a while of sitting with nothing really to do, Keith starts leaning over the books that surround him.  From what Shiro can tell, he’s a bright kid—maybe not as bright as Pidge, and no one can beat Hunk in the sciences—but still quick enough on his feet that missing almost three months of school in the last year has meant nearly nothing to him.  He instantly picks up on the fact that Lance is struggling with some math problem.

This could be good, Shiro thinks, as Keith leans over to point out the issue.

Or it could be very, very bad.

“Keep your hands to yourself, I don’t need your help, _Dropout_.”

“Lance,” Shiro says, but he can already see the hurt in Keith’s eyes being covered up by the classic anger.

“At least I’m not stupid,” he says.

“Good thing I can’t hit a pregnant lady,” Lance says right back, and there goes the pleasant morning.  Lance doesn’t usually act out this much, but he’s been having trouble wrapping up his Junior year with passing grades and he hasn’t had that kind of trouble since his diagnosis three years ago.  Shiro knows this, he _knows_ —and that’s why he tries to grab Lance and separate him from the others before it goes down.

He’s not quick enough.

“God, Lance, what is your _damage_?” Pidge says, and then promptly shuts her mouth as Keith _moves_ —his fist is so fast that Shiro doesn’t even see it connect, he just hears the noise it makes on impact.  Lance lets out a legitimate scream, kicking out instinctually, and if it weren’t for Hunk scooping Keith up and Allura sitting on Lance, Shiro KNOWS the damage would have been bad.

Hunk and Keith just opens a new can of worms, however.

“GET OFF GET OFF GET OFF—” Keith screams, and then there is a terrifying moment where he just goes limp in Hunk’s arms.  It’s like a light turns off—suddenly he’s perfectly blank, no expression, his head hanging forward.  Hunk nearly drops him in surprise.  Shiro is there in an instant—Allura has Lance up by the cuff of his shirt, leading him out of the room, and Shiro crouches in front of Keith and prays to god that he’s okay.

The good news is Keith’s eyes are open—he didn’t pass out.  The bad news is that’s he’s trembling all over, his face pale, and Shiro doesn’t have a clue what’s happening.  Just no idea.  God, he looks so scared…

“Keith?” he says, quietly, trying to catch his gaze.  Nothing.  Not even a flinch.  Shiro tentatively reaches forward and brushes his hair back—the same.

“Hunk, let him go,” Pidge says, choking on the words.  Hunk does as she says, trying to gently ease him down, but the moment he lets go Keith drags in a deep breath and bursts out crying.

“Shiro, I didn’t mean to—” Hunk starts, frantic, but Shiro is already hushing him.

“I know buddy, I know, now please go talk Lance down.  It’s okay, we’ll talk about it later.”

Hunk nods, and leaves with one last look over his shoulder at Keith, lying curled up on his side on the floor, sobbing.  Pidge is leaning over him, kneeling protectively at his head.  She’s sitting in a puddle of spilled tea, which has ruined a number of probably important notes, but she doesn’t even spare it a glance.  Shiro is suddenly unsure if she would care if it was her laptop in the wet—she has no eyes for anything but Keith right now.

“I think you should let me deal with this,” Pidge says for the second time.

 

* * *

 

 

The conversations are all different, but each time Shiro opens his mouth to start one they all ring in his head, repeating, looping on top of each other.  It’s like opening and closing a book to the same page, rereading the same paragraph indefinitely. He carries the same mug from room to room.

It starts with Lance.

“Lance, you promised no more fights until your birthday.”

Lance nods, miserable.  “I know, Shiro, I…”

“Why wouldn’t you just accept the help?”  Shiro can see how much this hurts, but he knows he can’t stop.  He swallows hard, keeps his gaze steady.

“I… it’s not that I didn’t want…”

“You want to do good, I know you do.  So why did you lash out?”

“I didn’t _want to_ , Shiro—"

“So explain it to me.  Come on.  Then we can hug it out.”

     …And then:

“Pidge, you know what happened to Keith today, don’t you?”

“Yeah, but I’m not gonna lie, this is some therapy level crap and I’m half-convinced that even knowing what I know means I have a confidentiality agreement with him.”

“I’m not… trying to pry, Pidge.  I just need to know how to help him, what to… do.”

She looks around, up and down the room, as if scanning for security measures.  Cameras.  Guards.  Anything.  Finally she sighs.  “He had the same look that you do when you… y’know…”

“Oh.”  And the understanding crashes down.  She means the look he has when he’s having flashbacks to the car wreck that took Allura’s dad’s life.

     …And:

“Hunk, you did good today, okay?”

“…sure, Shiro.”

“I mean it, Hunk.  That was good.  But you know how we’ll make it better next time?”  That has Hunk’s attention, just like Shiro knows it will.  Hunk is nothing if not a problem-solver.  “Next time we just need to get someone in between them.  We’re not going to touch Keith like that again.  So we need a strategy—"

     ...Followed by:

“Allura, quick thinking but please don’t sit on Lance.”

“Shiro, really?  He deserved it.”

“…I know, but you can’t just do that.”

“Fine.”

     …And _finally_ :

“Keith…”

“Go _away_ ,” Keith bites, muffled in his blanket.

“I’m just here to say one thing.  Can I do that?  I’ll leave you alone for the night after that.”

The silence is hardly encouraging, but Shiro will take what he can.

“I know it’s hard to trust people… and I know a lot of people have hurt you… but I think you should listen to what Pidge tells you.  Okay?  She’s the smartest one here, and if anyone can help…”

The silence stretches on.  And on.  And on…

Until Keith sniffles, and mumbles, “Fine.  Get out.”

And Shiro can finally close the book, turn off his brain, take of his prosthesis, and just… breathe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cheers! The next chapter will be lighter.  
> EDIT: I switched Rolo and Lotor's characters, so moving forward--Lotor was the bad egg kid that Shiro fostered, and Rolo is Allura's stoner friend. SORRY GUYS I JUST REALIZED IT MADE MORE SENSE.


	4. Week Three: Five Days Since Last Nonsense

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shiro has a crisis, Keith gets a haircut, and two new items hit the House Voltron black market.

The sun is a glorious beacon burning through the heavens like a weapon of god, and Shiro lays on the couch, batting his sweaty bangs off his face.  The house is pretty cool, but he’s spent most of the morning at the high school helping with the summer kick-off ‘fair’.  Mostly it’s been an excuse to eat potato chips while the kids pick up the last of their shit and scream about summer break.  Last days of school really are something. 

Shiro licks a few more potato chip crumbs out of the creases of his prosthesis.  God, so many potato chips… he should take better care of his hand, but they are so fucking good.  He flicks his hair out of his face for the hundredth time today.  He’d sigh, but that would look weird considering he’s got two of his robot fingers in his mouth.  Well, weirder.  He’s gross and the only good thing about right now is that the youngest three kids are out of the house continuing to scream about summer break.  That and the fact that Allura hasn’t come out of her room yet today.  And it sure isn’t a bad thing that Keith’s copious vomiting is finally starting to let up a little.  Even if Operation Get Keith To Go The Fuck To School has so far been a resounding failure, at least there’s that.  Shiro silently thanks the doctors for finding the correct hormone cocktail for his child.  And also for not being complete assholes about Keith being Keith.  They don’t live in a particularly progressive place, so even the fact that the doctors use the right name at all is a miracle.

Then again, there was that one guy who wouldn’t take a hint… Shiro is pretty sure that he’s been taken off the team, though, so no worries there, but all the nurses and secretaries and general waiting room detritus are still—wait a fucking second.

Shiro sits up straight, his fingers forgotten.  Did he just call Keith his child?  Yeah, it was in his own little brain space, but still that’s… they’re children, all of them are children, yes, but he’s never… god, he’s never thought of himself as an actual father before.  Is it just because of the baby?  Maybe all those damn OB-GYN visits are actually starting to mess with his head.  Oh god, if this is what’s happening to him, what’s happening to Keith?  Oh _god_ , does Keith even want to be his kid?  He’s turning eighteen in what, five and a half months?  There’s no reason to believe that Keith won’t just disappear somewhere the moment he’s allowed to.  Well, except for the fact that he’ll be like seven uncomfortable months pregnant by that point…

He’s still thinking way too hard about the whole thing when Keith walks in with his hair up in a ponytail.  He looks good, better than he has since he arrived—his gloves are clean and despite the emo levels of black clothing he’s wearing, he looks refreshed.  His black hair is tied with a scrunchie that must have come from the depths of Allura’s bin in the bathroom.

God, what Shiro wouldn’t do to be able to tie his bangs out of his eyes like that… wait.  Shiro’s brain hasn’t been working properly since this morning, he’s probably bordering on heat exhaustion or something, so it takes him a moment to really process what he’s seeing.  Ponytail.  Keith.  Trans boy Keith, who keeps being brutally misgendered no matter how many times he corrects people.

“Keith,” he blurts, “do you want a haircut, by any chance?”

Shiro has never seen a look so carefully calculating in his life, so he gets up and starts putting on his shoes to show that he’s damn serious right now.  In less than ten minutes they’re both sitting in the heated iron box that is the truck, ready to fight their way through god’s angels descending to earth and lighting the whole place on fire.  Shiro keeps his sweaty, still-kind-of-salty hands tight on the wheel, excitement building in his stomach.

 

* * *

 

 

The ladies at the salon have been fawning over Shiro for years, but the moment he brings Keith in, he’s left high and dry, abandoned by the wayside.  Apparently stress-induced white patches are NOTHING compared to Keith’s silky waves and pinchable face.

Pinchable is, of course, a relative term.  Keith’s face might be on its way to regaining a little of the chub he’s been steadily losing since arriving at House Voltron, but his deadly expression hasn’t let up in the slightest.  Shiro sees one older lady closing in for the pinch, and the look the kid levels could melt steel beams.  The other ladies coo.  Shiro makes a note to find a way to tell him that the ladies probably can’t tell that the pregnancy is starting to show on his skinny frame, preferably before the paranoia makes him bite any fingers off.  In the meantime, he tries to develop a psychic connection with the gaggle of ladies.  White flag, surrender, he tells them.  Save your manicures. 

It takes a few minutes, but soon enough everybody has calmed down enough to start actually talking scissors.  From scissors Keith jumps to buzzers, and though at least one of the ladies looks positively offended at the fact that he wants it all off, that’s what Keith is set on.  Judging by that reaction they are all convinced he’s a girl, which probably doesn’t help with the finger-biting danger, but the fact that he’s allowed to cut his hair any way he wants makes him grin and settle into his seat.  He’s even pretty calm as a cloak is pinned over his (black) shirt and one pair of hands starts running all through his hair.

Maybe he’s had pretty good experiences with hairdressers before, Shiro thinks, as he settles in for his own trim.  Trauma from a haircut sounds a little foreign, but he’s sure it’s a thing, and he’s grateful Keith hasn’t had it.  God, he’s being so protective… but he can’t help it.  Maybe Keith _is_ his child.

He makes a note to ask Coran about this before it drives him completely nuts.

The Look Keith convinces the hairdresser to give him is pretty cute, Shiro thinks, spinning lazily in his chair after his own cut is finished.  He’s a routine man—he’s usually in every two weeks to get a touch-up, and everyone knows his usual order.  The fact that the last month has been so chaotic means that for the first time since Lotor he’s had to forego his trim.

Keith, though.  Keith’s hair is mostly straight, now that it’s cut shorter—the sides are carefully buzzed, and there’s a fade in the back, but his bangs are still long, swept to one side and just long enough to tuck the edges behind his ear if he wants to.  Shiro grins as he carelessly ruffles the style the lady has been painstakingly cultivating, tossing a pleased look over.  A little tuft kicks up at the back, seemingly untamable. 

Oh, Shiro can’t NOT get a picture of that.  Meaning he very, very much needs a pic, pronto.

The scowl Keith sends his way is weak, compared to his usual ones.  Shiro would almost say he looks relaxed.

 

 

His heart feels very, very warm all of a sudden.  The feeling lasts all the way through the ride home, where he keeps catching peeks of Keith sitting against the window and carefully stroking the short hair at the nape of his neck.

They come back home to Lance sprawled on the couch, an arm thrown over his eyes, loudly declaring that, “The iron giant is an important fucking movie, Pidge, don’t be a heathen.”

Oh dear god, not this again.  Shiro looks around for Allura and sees that not only is her door shut, but she’s blasting music as loud as she’s allowed to.  They’ve obviously been at it for a while.  A loud noise sounds from the general area of the kitchen—all kids accounted for. Hunk must be making the traditional end-of-the-school-year treats.

“I’m just saying that there are more relevant movies, _Lance_ ,” Pidge says.  She’s on the floor beside her laptop, not even bothering to lift her head to type.  “Russians?  Really?”

“How can you be the gayest person I’ve ever met and not think Putin is a threat?  Honestly what the fuck.”  Lance still hasn’t noticed the door opening nor closing.  Shiro isn’t surprised—when he gets his mind stuck on something, it can be hard for him to actually pay attention to anything happening around him.  The Iron Giant argument is something he gets stuck on quite frequently, to Allura’s perpetual annoyance.  He’s probably been tuning everything but Pidge’s offending snark out for the last half hour at least.

Pidge is unmoved.  “Aw, you think I’m gay.  I’m flattered.  You give the Russians too much credit, though—the only place they can fuck shit up is their own country.”

“…I take it back, in that case.  Actually, Keith is probably the gayest person I’ve ever met.  He’s honestly probably the gayest person in the world.  Like, thought I was gay?  Nope.  I’m a lone foot-long ruler compared to his rainbow corkscrew ass.  I bet _he_ properly appreciates the beauty of The Iron Giant.”

Pidge locks eyes with Shiro and smirks.

“I’m what?” Keith asks, having come back from sticking his nose into the kitchen.

What Shiro wouldn’t do to have a picture of Lance’s face as he jerks upright—oh, no wait, Pidge has him covered.  She grins deviously and holds her phone up higher for a better angle.  Lance looks like he honestly might cry.  It’s pretty funny, especially the moment he realizes that Keith’s hair is different.

“No…” he says, his eyes boring holes into Keith.

“I’m no?”

“No, I mean… _nooo_.  _Way_.”

Keith looks uneasy as Lance pops up from the couch and starts to circle him.  “Uh?” he says, leaning away.  Lance just keeps coming, staring intently at his head.

“You’ve got EARS!  EARS, HUNK!” he calls.

“What’s this about ears?” Hunk asks, appearing from the kitchen in a flour-dusted apron. 

A flush indicating mortification is starting to spread across said ears, especially as Lance whips around and bleats, “HUNK—KEITH!  LOOK AT HIS EARS, _LOOK AT THEM_!”

Keith flattens one palm against an ear and self-consciously tugs at some of his bangs.  His shoulders hunch dramatically.  “I mean… it’s not bad, right?” he says, and if Shiro didn’t know better he’d say there was a warble in his voice.

“Dude, you look hella handsome,” Hunk reassures him.  “IDK what Lance’s problem is, honestly.”

Lance just continues to flounder, gesturing wildly in Keith’s direction.

“Lance, you know I love you but I still don’t understand what that means,” Hunk whines.  Pidge snorts.

“No, dude, listen—he’s—”

And then, without any further warning, Lance pokes Keith in the back of the neck.

The entire room freezes, and Shiro almost groans.  They were doing so well!  It’s been nearly five days since the last major meltdown—that’s like a record right now.  Hunk slips away to take care of whatever is in the oven.  Pidge pretends to look at her laptop, but her fingers aren’t moving and she seems to be listening intently.  Shiro cautiously steps forward to mediate, waits for whatever will happen next—a punch, a flashback, an explosion…

Keith does better than he expects, just flinches and smacks the offending hand away with a glare.  “Don’t,” he warns.

“Wait, but—”

“No,” Keith says, backing out of reach.  The Glare is sending waves of warning off of him that everyone but Lance seems to clearly see.  “Also, I’m actually ace, not gay, so…”

Thankfully, that stalls Lance right out.  He spends what feels to Shiro like a frustrating and treacherous amount of time staring between Keith’s stomach and his face before he seems to give up, more interested in the plate of cookies that Hunk discreetly slides onto the table between them than he is in asking six million more invasive questions.

Shiro adds this to the list of things they need to talk about.  Preferably before the entire household malfunctions and there’s a misfire in their family unit.  But for now it’s okay—Keith slowly loses the tension in his body, Pidge returns to typing, Hunk drags Lance off to start a batch of muffins, and everything is at ease.

Later that night, Shiro trades the picture of Keith at the salon for a copy of the video of Lance losing his shit, and laughs until he cries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! If you like, please comment! If you don't like, please comment! Honestly if you're here, please comment, I'm begging. Cheers!


	5. One Month Anniversary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The kids plan a party, Coran is a tease, and Shiro accidentally makes the whole room cry.

The only time the house is ever truly quiet is the moment before everything comes crashing down.  Shiro can smell it the second he opens the door to guide Keith inside after an appointment for a blood draw.  Keith still gets sick most mornings, but it happens early and it’s much easier to plan around the morning sickness now.  They’re falling into an easy routine—as easy as the situation will allow, anyway.  Which means that it would and should be a normal Sunday morning, except—except.  There’s no movement.  All the bedroom doors are closed.  Pidge has abandoned her laptop on the living room floor.  Entropy is heavy in the air.

The ominousness is nearly palpable.  It’s like a storm descending from above, ready to cleanse the earth of scum and non-believers.  Nothing will ever be the same after it hits.

Shiro doesn’t have the luxury to even contemplate how overdramatic he’s being, comparing the kids to a natural disaster of biblical proportions, before said disaster decides to hit.

“ _SURPRISE!_ ”

Four doors slam open and suddenly a flood of balloons washes down the hallway, spilling into the living room.  There are several loud pops and confetti joins the mix—Lance skips to the head of the procession, raising his dinged-up trumpet to his lips.  Shiro rests a hand on Keith’s shoulder to stop him from bolting—in the past month they’ve come to an understanding, more or less, that a shoulder touch of no more than two seconds is Okay Territory.  Though this is, Shiro thinks, a pretty good reason to book it.

“I thought we agreed no trumpet?” Allura screams over the sound of what seems to be a waltz-tempo version of Taps.  Lance protests as she wrestles the instrument away, but Pidge and Hunk are undeterred, steering around them and holding pans wrapped in tin foil.

“It’s your month-iversary!” Hunk says happily, twirling a spoon the same way he used to twirl his drumsticks.  He gave up marching band in favor of being a teacher’s assistant in the beginner shop classes, but he’s still got quite the knack for it.  He’s clad in the bright yellow apron today—this one was a gift from the lady at the bakery down the street, Ms. Shay.  It says, in bold orange letters, “I BAKE THE SUN INTO MY PIES.”  Which, really, says it all.

There’s a great shuffling as the kids fight their way to the table, watching eagerly as Hunk pries the tin foil off of whatever creation he’s made for them.  “My what?” Keith asks, unable to process the landslide of celebratory balloons, but before any of the kids hanging around eagerly waiting for food can answer him, Coran bursts through the door.

“Good morning, Numbers One through Five!” he says cheerfully, pausing only to scoop Pidge off her feet before he’s carrying a rather large basket toward the kitchen, wading through the balloon lagoon.  Lance sneaks up behind him, charging one up by rubbing it on his shirt, before carefully applying it to Coran’s pomaded hair.  “I’ve got all sorts of goodies for you munchkins, and one or two that are just for Shiro and me—”

“You brought liquor?  To a kid's surprise party?” Pidge whines.  “What kind of tease are you, Coran?”

“The kind who knows how to enjoy a day, Number Five,” Coran says, a touch smug.

Shiro huffs.  “You just like the excuse to drink at eleven in the morning.”

“Nonsense!  I love every excuse to drink equally.  I’m a retired man, Number One, it’s an indulgence I’m able to afford.”  His chest puffs up amid several whines and cries for attention, rolling on top of each other, and he begins to unpack his basket—bite-size muffins, nice shampoos in full-size containers, a card with a bow on it, a selection of gloves that he must have dug out from his massive closet after learning how fond Keith is of his fingerless gloves, a bottle of gin…

“Wait.”

At the sound of Keith’s still-helplessly-confused voice, everyone stops their casual bickering and looks over at him.  He’s still standing near the open door, one hand raised slightly as he stares at everyone with his brows furrowed.  Confetti is spread like shrapnel over the side of his shirt, sticking in the short bristly hair at the side of his head.

“What is it, Keith?” Lance asks, low and slow as if he’s a dog that sometimes bites when it’s scared.  Which isn’t that off of a metaphor, honestly.

“It’s… this… what are you doing?”

“Uh.”  Lance looks around for support.  “Dude, it’s just a party.  For you.  You know, for making it a whole month without screwing up too badly.  It’s been a while since we’ve had a newbie who stuck around and didn’t, y’know, get arrested.  So congratulations!”

Keith gapes.  “Why would you…?”

“Listen,” Shiro says, utterly serious.  The activity starts to pick up again—Coran lifts an empty glass as if he’s toasting.  “We’ve had a few bad eggs come through.  Not everyone wants to make it work, and not everyone is willing to work on their mistakes.  So this is the kids’ way of saying… they’re glad you made it.”

“Oh.”

“And I’m so glad you did!” Hunk says.  “We’re like brothers!  Siblings!  Children of the universe united under one cause!”  He tries to scoop up Pidge, who evades, then Lance, who is too preoccupied by the goodies to pay much more attention than to give him a badly-aimed pat on the arm.  Allura obstinately sits down when he looks at her.  Finally, it’s just him and Keith, standing awkwardly face to face.

The moment is broken when Keith holds out a fist.  Hunk gleefully bumps it with his own fist, providing explosion effects.

Meanwhile, Coran has already poured out a glass of his Choice Liquor and is smelling it with an appreciative expression.  He goes to take a drink, only to find Lance wriggling under his elbow.  “Let me try!” Lance says, enthusiastically waving for Coran to hand over the glass.

Coran huffs.  “One sip, Number Three, and one sip only.”

“Coran—” Shiro interjects immediately, but he’s cut off.

“Wait, can I try it too?  Just one sip won’t do anything,” Keith asks eagerly.  He’s leaning forward, eyes bright, starting to come to terms with the level of energy in the house.  Which can be a good thing, or it can just add another layer of debris to the already demolished floor.  One thing is for certain—someone is going to get ensnared in cleanup duty, and that person will NOT be happy.  God help them, if they think that person is going to be Shiro, they have another thing coming.

“Nooo—” Hunk is already saying, as Lance eagerly takes his drink.  Lance gags and makes a face—Pidge is carefully taking a picture from the safety of the space behind Allura’s chair, knowing that no one will dare come close to try and wrestle the phone from her. 

“None for you, Keith,” Shiro says sternly, watching Lance’s face turn red.  “For one, Lance shouldn’t be drinking it either, seeing as he’s underage, but Coran has a soft spot for Lance.  For two, it’s not good for the baby.  And for three, that stuff is disgusting, I don’t know why you want to try it.”

Keith pouts.  “Haha,” Lance gasps weakly, trying to clear his throat and failing.

Before anyone can stop him, Keith grabs the glass from Lance’s weak hand and takes a huge gulp—only to spit it back into the glass a second later.  Everyone groans and leans away from him, just in case he throws up—Shiro sighs.  “Oh, god,” Keith says, coughing.  “It’s like olive juice and boiled vinegar.”

“I coulda told you that,” Lance says weakly, and thumps him twice on the back before Keith shoves him off.  Pidge leans forward as if to take the glass and test this, but Shiro snatches it before she can.  He’s seen her drink some disgusting things, including but not limited to: mild acid distilled from orange juice, Allura’s backwash, and all sorts of special flavor mountain dew mixed into one disgusting, swamp green concoction.  He makes a gesture at Coran, enticing him to take the offending drink away before anyone else gets any bright ideas.

“Wait, so… you’re not going to sing, right?” Keith asks, recovering from the liquor by taking a shot of Allura’s pomegranate juice, which Hunk has not-so-subtly stolen for the occasion.

“Oh, we’re DEFINITELY going to sing,” Lance says.  Everyone groans loudly.  Shiro hides his laughter behind a slice of fresh banana bread and gives up all pretense of trying to keep the kids in line.

 

* * *

 

 

“Keith,” Shiro says a few hours later, just loud enough to catch his attention, after a mass migration to the living room.  The rest of the pack has fallen into a cascade of Wii battles, Coran currently dominating.  Coran, moustache wax and weird knobby fingers and all, is weirdly good at Wii games.  It’s probably partly his honed reflexes from thirty years of being a nurse, both here and when he lived in Australia, but whatever his secret strategy is he’s using it to mop the floor with the kids.  Keith turns to Shiro, still giggling from a particularly wild Coran vs. Lance match.

“Yeah?” he asks, carefree, cradling his soda (caffeine free, because Shiro was smart enough to only let the kids buy caffeine free drinks) in his hands.

There are six dozen things that Shiro wants to say.  Questions he thinks need answers.  Why does Keith still flinch horribly whenever someone comes at him from the wrong angle?  Who put the baby, who is currently the size of the first two joints of Shiro’s pointer finger, in Keith’s womb?  How long can the kid keep shucking off his binder for the doctors to listen to his lungs without screaming?  Is he doing okay?  Is it too much?  Is Lance’s insensitivity getting to him?  Is he going to stay?

“Shiro?” Keith asks, leaning over the arm of the couch toward the older man, his brow pinched.  Does he realize that he dons the intense and focused look nearly as much as his scowl now?  Does he notice the little ways that he relaxes around the others?  Is he going to stay?

The others have noticed that there’s a thing happening now.  “Shiro, man, you okay?” Hunk asks.  Do they invite Keith into their shenanigans on purpose or do they not even realize that they’re doing it?  Do they really think that this is his home?  Do they think he’ll stay?

Is he going to stay?  Is he going to stay?  Is he going to stay?

The TV is shut off while Shiro is lost to the turmoil of his thoughts.  Coran gives him a soft look.  “It’s okay, Shiro,” he says.

“What is it, what’s going on?” Keith asks, a touch shy of stricken, and Shiro realizes that there are tears running down his own cheeks.  He thinks about Allura’s dad… Alfor, in his stoic black suit, driving home from a funeral.  He realizes, again, for the thousandth time, how much he misses his brother.  It just hits him again every once in a while—the hole that Alfor left behind, the way that he and Allura have tried to piece it all together again in the last eight years, how each of the kids brings something that makes the load a little lighter and easier to manage.  He doesn’t know what he would do without these kids.

He opens his mouth to try and say it, to get it out so they can all know without a doubt how much he loves them, but Pidge beats him to the punch.  “It’s okay, Shiro, we know how much we mean to you.”

“Speak for yourself, not all of us get constant praises—” Lance says, but Shiro is already on it.

“God… I love you guys so much,” he says, and suddenly his voice is breaking and it would be embarrassing if it weren’t in front of a bunch of kids who have, for the most part, seen this several times before.  “I love you guys.  You mean everything to me.  Fuck—would someone give me a hug?”

Hunk obliges immediately, pulling him into a rib-crushing embrace.

“Sorry,” Shiro says, holding Hunk tightly and shielding his own face from view with his mechanical hand.  “Sorry—I just wanted to say that I—I hope you decide to stay with us through this, Keith, I—I would be honored to do this with you, and I think—I know you’re part of this family already, if you want to be, party or no party.”

There are murmurs around the room, and Shiro is too far gone to be able to see where they’re coming from before two more teenage-sized bodies are piling onto him.  Pidge’s quivering frame suctions onto his side, her head buried under his arm, and Lance spreads himself on top like a starfish on a rock.

Allura sits out of the dog-pile, Coran at her elbow with a Knowing Grin. She heaves a sigh.  “You’re a sap, Shiro,” she says, but she’s smiling like she knows exactly what brought this on.  She probably does.  One of her hands, with its delicate pink fingernails, trails up and down Keith’s back as he huddles on the couch, hiding his face in his hands.

“God, I really didn’t mean to put you on the spot like that, Keith,” Shiro says through his snotty nose.  Lance digs fingers into the back of his neck, pulling him closer.

“It’s fine,” Keith’s voice comes, squeezing through his hands, thick with emotion.  Shiro laughs weakly.

“You’re crying,” Lance accuses, staring back at Keith with blatantly puffy eyes.

“ _You’re_ crying,” Keith says right back, sniffling.  “And you don’t have the excuse of stupid hormones.”

“We’re all crying, so shut up and have the moment,” Pidge snaps, and then everyone is laughing.

Shiro thinks that as far as storms go, they've weathered this one okay.  He lets Hunk stroke his hair and listens to Lance hiccuping laughter in his ear and yeah... yeah.  They'll be okay.  They're going to make it.  It's going to be fine.

He's going to stay, Shiro can feel it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO I'm awful at math and I had to go back through the last few chapters like five times to get my timeline straight BUT--I think it's figured out. It'll be one chapter per 'week' in fic time, at least until the baby comes. How much emotion can I cram into ~35 weeks? SO MUCH. :D Comments are appreciated.


	6. Plead the Fifth (Week)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shiro just wants to Get Keith The Fuck To School, a panic attack is had, and hello to the Morning Puke Fairy.

Shiro is supposed to get Keith down to the high school to sign up for summer classes the day after the party.  That plan goes to shit literally as soon as it’s made.

It’s nearly Friday by the time Shiro gets the kid up and ready on time, carefully plied with the hot chocolate that they probably should have made while they were all in a pile on the floor sobbing.  But the moment is long over, and Shiro can’t help the fact that Keith was weak-kneed and wobbly from puking Monday morning.  He’s just glad that the sugar seems to be settling Keith’s stomach enough for them to head out on this fine Thursday morning—before the heat hits, thanks for asking.  June is as good as dead to him if it keeps delivering this ninety-degree nonsense.

Keith sits in the truck with his chin propped up on one hand, the other fiddling with the frayed bits at the knees of his torn black skinny jeans.  A new pair of fingerless gloves from Coran—vintage, made of soft leather—are pulled tight over his palms.  Shiro is pretty sure that both of these things are against the school’s dress code, but it was hard enough getting the kid out of bed, he wasn’t about to blow it by making him go change. 

“What if they ask about the little alien?” Keith asks suddenly, speaking mostly to the window.

“If who does what?” Shiro asks, carefully watching the town go by in his mirrors.  He still triple checks every intersection he goes through, looking both ways even when the cross traffic has reds.

“The people there.  About the baby.  That’s what I’m… calling it.”

Oh.  That’s… kind of endearing, actually.  “If it’s teachers or staff, you can just tell them to talk to me.  If it’s other kids… I don’t know.  Stay calm and judge the situation, maybe.  Sometimes people are just curious, I doubt anybody will be looking for a fight.  You can tell them whatever you want.”  …God he hopes that’s good advice.  This week has been hard, he’s running out of personal days at work, and this is shaping up to be the summer he boils alive.  He doesn’t have much processing power for Sage Advice.

Keith grunts.  That clears up absolutely nothing.

The school office has been saving copies of all the work Keith should have been doing this week, and the second the secretary sees Shiro she breaks out into a huge grin and shoves the pile at him.  Shiro pulls some small talk out of his ass as he shuffles the papers.  Mostly about ‘the kids are doing X’ this and ‘Keith’s situation’ that.

“I understand the situation, Shiro,” the desk lady says, overly serious for the topic, he thinks.  She leans forward as if they’re discussing state secrets.  “There’s actually another pregnant lady who will be coming to the school in the fall—”

Out of the corner of his eye, Shiro catches a glimpse of Keith turning on a heel and disappearing out the door.  That’s okay, the kid doesn’t need to be here for all of this, but the speed with which he goes is a little disconcerting.  A few minutes later Shiro manages to grab the packet of paper and exit the office, grateful that’s now over.  If he can swing it, he’s going to give all this to Keith and shove the kid at a teacher so he can scrounge up a few hours at his own so-called workplace.  If he doesn’t get his ass in gear soon, he’ll be as SOL with his job as Keith is with school right now.  He heads into the hall.  Where is Keith, anyway?

Not in sight, apparently.  He sighs.  The school isn’t that big, he’s probably just scoping out the bathroom situation or—he trips.

It’s a good think he catches himself on the wall, otherwise he would have fallen right on top of Keith’s head.  The kid is curled up with his head in his hands, backed up against a wall, and Shiro is immediately on high alert.  “Keith?” he says, crouching down next to him.  Maybe he felt sick—maybe he couldn’t make it to a bathroom.  That would be unfortunate, but they can handle it.

Except Keith doesn’t respond.

He tries again, keeping a respectable distance.  “Hey, buddy.  What’s up?”

“I’m fine, I’m fine I’m fine I’m fine—"

That’s not a response that Shiro wants to hear.  He drops the paper to the side and raises both hands, hovering awkwardly.  There aren’t enough people around to make this truly awkward, but the occasional whispers and footsteps in the periphery as people walk a berth around them aren’t exactly pleasant.  Keith doesn’t pay attention—he’s completely focused on breathing right now, using a counting technique that Coran actually taught Shiro back in the day.  Shiro knows it like the back of his hand, which comes in, ha, handy—he scoots up beside Keith and starts breathing with him, deep exaggerated breaths so that Keith can catch the rhythm quicker.

This goes on until Shiro can’t hear any more shaky exhales.  He then taps on the floor to get Keith’s attention.  “Do you want to go home?” he asks, gentle.  “I don’t know what the trigger was, but you know yourself better than I do.  If you want to go home, we can.”

Keith shakes his head, pauses, then whispers, “We can?”

“Yeah,” Shiro says instantly, all worries about his job as good as forgotten.  He is now a man on a mission.  A new mission.  Mission Get Keith The Fuck To School is pushed to the side in favor of Take Keith The Fuck Home.  “Yeah, buddy.  You want a hand up?”

Keith shakes his head more emphatically this time, pushing himself to his feet.  He stands there like a doll, lifeless, as Shiro collects the papers and guides them back out to the truck. 

Shiro doesn’t want to ask, but he has to.  “Do you know what happened?  What made you panicky?”

“It was what she said,” Keith says to the window.  The tone of this conversation is much more… delicate than the one they had not half an hour ago.  He hunches up, and Shiro barely catches his pale face screwed up in the reflection.  He’s fighting off tears.  This isn’t like his worry about the little alien—he’s suddenly breaking down, fighting sobs.

“What she said about being…?”

“Yeah, just… please don’t say it.  Please just… leave it.”

“Okay,” Shiro says.  Okay.  He can do that.

He also can do something else, too.  He dials the number with his left hand, pulling off the road real quick to cut off his driving paranoia before it even starts.  He feels like he needs to make this call, and he’s not about to keep driving without his full focus on the road.  Keith sits silently next to him, wiping angrily at his face every now and then.

The phone rings a few times before the man of the hour picks up.

“…Hey, Hunk.  Listen, I know you and Pidge were working on that thing… yeah, yeah, that one.  Can I ask you to take a break to make a treat for us?  Keith’s having a… hard time.  We’re on our way home.”

 

* * *

 

 

Shiro doesn’t bring it up again with Keith, even after everyone gets some peanut butter cookies (apparently Hunk already had them in the oven for Pidge, and since Hunk has switched entirely to dairy-substitutes they’re okay for Keith to eat).  He’s okay with leaving that where it is, especially after being asked like that to leave it be.

He can’t, however, leave it where it is with the rest of the kids.  While Keith is in the shower later that night, he calls an emergency meeting in Allura’s room.

“Okay guys, I’m being deadly serious here, listen up,” he intones.  The gaggle leans in.  “We do not, under any circumstances, use the phrase ‘pregnant lady’ around Keith.  If you hear someone use it, I need you to guide him away from them.  Just hearing the phrase gave him a panic attack today—if it happens when you’re around, just do your best to keep him calm.  No, I don’t know why, and no, don’t ask him.  Does everyone understand?”

Shiro thinks they get the message clear enough.  Even Lance, who normally can’t help but crack jokes when they’re in a huddle like this, is stony-faced. 

That’s good.  That’s better than he expected, honestly.  It can be hard to navigate all these situations with the kids, but they’re all old enough now to understand the significance of him asking.

Everything is good until after the house goes to sleep.  Shiro blinks awake to timid little noises.  He rolls over in his bed.  It’s the middle of the night.  It’s the middle of the night and someone is crying.

Shiro is up instantly.  For a few long, nerve-wracking seconds he thinks it’s Keith, having another panic attack.  Then he makes it to the bathroom and knocks gently on the door and it’s Lance who comes out, hastily wiping away the tears on his face.  “Sorry, Shiro, you can have the bathroom,” he says.

While Lance is trying to veer away, still wiping at his eyes, Shiro deftly catches his elbow and pulls him into a tight hug.  He channels all the hugs that he’s wanted to give to Keith in the past however-long into this embrace.  “What’s wrong?” he asks into Lance’s hair, and Lance’s shoulders shake even as he says, “Nothing!”

“Not nothing, Lance.  You don’t cry over nothing.”

“Well, maybe today is my lucky day,” Lance says, trying to squirm away.  Shiro tucks him against his chest with his stump and slowly strokes his hair the way that Hunk does, and Lance stills instantly.

“I didn’t mean to say that to him, that’s all,” he says in a whisper.

“Say what?”

“When we fought!  That one day after Coran visited and I said it and I—"

Shiro remembers that fight.  The tension in the room, the way they snapped at each other.  He remembers the sound of Keith’s fist hitting the side of Lance’s face.  He remembers Keith going completely limp in Hunk’s arms.

“Oh, buddy,” he says.

The thing about Lance is that he’s not insensitive—quite the opposite, actually.  He’s slowly learned how to feel things and then let them go before they really hurt him, before they dig in far enough that he feels like he has to lash out to get them out of his skin.  But he’s not immune to making mistakes, and he’s DEFINITELY not immune to feeling the aftershocks of those mistakes far, far beyond the epicenter of whatever emotional conflict caused them.

Lance lost everything he ever loved, once, and his greatest fear is that he’ll lose everyone again—except this time it will be his own fault, instead of there being a random-happenstance natural disaster to blame.

“Lance,” Shiro says, listening to soft sobs that echo in the darkness.  “Lance, buddy, you know you didn’t mean it.”

“Doesn’t matter, does it?” Lance sniffles.  “Still hurt him.  _I_ still hurt him.  It was stupid and I wasn’t thinking and I—”

A light flickers on.  “God, what are you two talking about at four in the morning?” asks a very grumpy Pidge.  Her blanket cocoon in the living room shows clear signs of her emergence, gutted blankets strewn across the ground.  She hugs her laptop to her chest like a stuffed animal, squinting.

“We’re just discussing some things that happened,” Shiro says, letting Lance finally wriggle free.

“Do I need to make hot chocolate?” Pidge sighs.  “Because I will, but you know I always measure it wrong—”

“Nah, it’s okay,” Lance says.  He borrows Pidge’s sleeve to clean his face, and Pidge lets him, a fond expression cracking through her grump.  “You can go back to sleep, Pidgey.”

“Actually, I think Keith is gonna be up soon.  You might want to clear out if you don’t want to see the Morning Puke Fairy.”

Like he’s been summoned by the utterance of his name, Keith appears in his door, a fist carefully hovering in front of his lips.  He takes in the scene in front of him with sleepy, mostly-dead eyes.  “Everything okay?” he croaks, clearing his throat a little.

“Great, now that literally everyone is here to see me cry,” Lance pouts.

“Not everyone!” Hunk calls from somewhere down the hall, and Lance groans.

Keith, however, seems unmoved.  “You realize I cry all the time, right?” he asks, still obviously fighting down nausea.  “’S not a big deal.”

“Yeah, but you’re—” Lance makes a grand, sweeping gesture as if to encompass everything that is Keith, from his holey black socks to his gnarly bedhead.  “And I’m—” and another gesture, smaller this time, directed at his own chest.

There’s a few awkward moments where Keith just stands there, staring at Lance with a confused-but-nauseated expression while Pidge slowly rubs up-and-down his shoulder.  Shiro scrubs his hand over his face and yawns widely, almost fake, keeping Lance in the corner of his eye the whole time.  The clock in the living room seems exceptionally loud in the silence, ticking past a few seconds.

Then Keith admits, “I have no idea what that means,” and Lance is startled into giggles.

“My dude, I don’t know either,” he says, sniffing loudly.  “But hey, just like… for future reference or whatever, if I say something exceptionally stupid you can tell me that and I won’t do it again.  Like, I do have a sliver of self-awareness and I know how to feel bad when I fuck up.”

“Oh…kay?” Keith says, squinting at him.

“Great!  Now go on, you have a date with the toilet, I’d hate to make you late.” 

And with that, Lance makes a 180 and all but bolts to his room, to the sound of Hunk going, “Aw yeah, that was a good one, Lance.  High five, bro!”

“Did I… see that correctly?” Keith asks, wavering a little on his feet.  He’s obviously not ready for conversations yet.

“I think you did, buddy,” Shiro says kindly.  He steps aside to let Pidge push Keith into the bathroom with a roll of her eyes.

“Go back to bed, Shiro,” she calls.  “I’ll have him ready to go to school when you get up later.”

“Pidge, you’re the backbone of this household.” 

“Oh, I know, Shiro.”

Shiro can’t help the smile that’s hovering on his lips as he crawls back into his warm, comfy bed.  All’s well that ends well, he guesses, and this week is as good as over.

Thank _god_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... we've gotten some new insight into Lance and Keith's characters. How are we feeling about that?


	7. Week Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A shopping trip goes awry, Pidge has a scheme, and the kids discover Shiro's dirty high school secrets.

“I’m sorry, Shiro—”

“You don’t have to be sorry.”

“I know but—fuck, I’m sorry—”

“Keith—”

“I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry—"

Shiro never should have said the word ‘mall’ in front of Lance.  He hadn’t meant to—he was talking to Pidge about going bra-shopping for Keith and Lance just happened to wander within earshot.  It’s a time-honored mistake, one that made what could have been an hour-long bra-run turn into an all family, all day outing that is currently pushing everybody to their breaking point. 

Shiro mentally ticks his problems off on his mechanical fingers.  He's got a finger—and a problem—for each of his wards.

One: Allura looks murderous, half a step away from abandoning him to the mess he’s made.  Two: Pidge has been trying and failing to get his attention all day, and the longer she goes without it, the less she helps with the situation.  Three: Hunk is hungry.  Like… almost-ready-to-wander-off-and-piss-off-the-same-chef-as-the-last-time-they-came hungry.  Four: Keith is getting hit over the head with anxiety and dysphoria.  And five: Lance.  Just… Lance.

Shiro hunches his shoulders, doing his best to stay between Keith and the self-proclaimed air-trumpet master.

“Shiro!” Allura calls, bubbling over with righteous anger.  She deserves to be angry, Shiro thinks.  He leans on the wall outside the fitting rooms next to where Keith has set up residence, carefully adjusting as Lance paces and twirls.  He thought it would be good to get her out of the house for a bit—y’know, have some wholesome family time, get her to help Keith in the fitting room in exchange for some spending money—but she’s now been left on her own to keep track of three teenagers as Shiro tries to get Keith some space.  At least two of said teenagers seem intent on completely reorganizing the maternity section of Kohls.

None of this is going to end well, Shiro is well aware of that.  He’s not sure why he agreed to it in the first place.  Well, he is—it’s because his brain was melting and running out of his nose onto the pile of paperwork he was supposed to be doing when Keith just so happened to provide the perfect distraction.  And Keith asked nicely, no attempted window escapes or anything—Shiro couldn’t just say _no_. 

That sure doesn’t mean he thought it through, though.  In his defense, he was still waiting on the brain fog to clear out.  He didn’t resemble a proper human person at the time.

Keith groans into his hands, his shoulders shaking, as he continues to mumble apologies to himself.  He’d started to get upset somewhere in the middle of the women’s section, but it wasn’t until he nearly started crying that Shiro realized what was up.  That was about the same time that Hunk mentioned looking in maternity for clothes “for Pregnant Keith, y’know, for when he’s like, really pregnant and it’s all super obvious—" and Pidge, who was supposed to be Keith’s trans-buddy, got distracted by some passing lady’s (admittedly cool) robot phone case.

And now they’re here, and yeah, no, this is too much.  Shiro almost wants his paperwork back. They’re obviously not going to be getting Keith new clothes in this state, which was the whole purpose of going out.  He tries not to sigh as he signals Allura to send Pidge over from where she’s sitting under a clothing rack with her laptop, probably hacking into the mall’s security system.  Lance skips past innocently with a bra on his head and Shiro wants to die.  Thankfully Pidge smacks it off of him on her way, ignoring his indignant ‘hey!’.

“Shiro, I need to show you—” she starts, hefting her laptop, but Shiro cuts her off.

“It’s gonna have to wait.  We need a Plan H—do you think you can handle Keith for a few minutes?”

That gets a huff out of her, but she nods.  “I wouldn’t have to ‘handle’ it if you’d just sent Lance and Hunk into FYE,” she says under her breath, snapping the laptop shut to punctuate her point. 

Shiro waves her off, running a hand through his hair as he starts after Lance, but she’s not done yet. 

“You should have known that Lance would be Lance, Shiro, he’s got the impulse control of a rooster at sunrise.” 

Her whispered voice slithers after him, snakelike, wriggling under his skin.  Shiro pretends that he can’t hear.  Because yes, he should have known.  He regrets this enough, thank you.  Though that _is_ an incredibly astute metaphor, he’s going to be sure to use that again at some point.

Ten minutes later he manages to wrangle everyone into the minivan, despite Hunk whining that they didn’t even make it to the cinnamon roll place and the fact that Lance almost set off the store alarms because he forgot he was wearing a graphic T from the teens section over his baseball shirt.  All in all, it’s a better ending than the last time they came to the mall, though the look on Keith’s face is frankly terrifying. 

Keith shoves himself into the back corner of the minivan, arms crossed tightly over his chest, while Lance complains that Allura _always_ gets shotgun, that’s not fair!  Shiro chooses not to say anything about this fact.  Lance calls it favoritism, Shiro calls it ‘driving without imminent threats to his personal wellbeing’.  With five kids now, the minivan is one person short of being packed to bursting, and Allura knows this.  She gives Lance a deadly smile over her shoulder and he decides to switch his attention to Pidge, who already has her laptop out again.

“So… whatcha doing?” he asks, buckling in. 

“Just looking into alternative education,” she says casually, giving Shiro such a piercing look in the mirror that he knows the comment is directed right at him.  He feels his stomach drop.  Even considering all the mistakes Shiro has made today, that Look is a little pointed.

If this is what she wanted to bring up in the store, then Shiro knows the day isn’t going to end until there’s at least one more major blowout. 

The thing is… she’s been taking a scientific interest in Keith’s current apathy for school.  If he were to think heavily on it, Shiro would probably come to the conclusion that her brain has been understimulated recently because most of House Voltron’s current resources are being directed at Keith.  He chooses not to think about it.

“Uh, why?” Lance asks.  Hunk is leaning into Pidge’s space from the other side, attempting to poke her keyboard.  She smacks them both away.

“Reasons.”  She shrugs.  Shiro hopes that will be the end of it, at least for now.  Keith is already wound up tight enough.

The back is silent for a few minutes.  Pidge taps some keys.  Allura pops a bubble with her gum.  Lance leans back with a huff and stares out the window, knocking his forehead against it gently.  It’s not paperwork, but it _is_ as quiet as life gets with all the kids in one place.

Then Pidge opens her mouth again.  Trust her conniving little mind games to leak over into what really should have been, a thousand years past, a simple shopping trip.  She’s obviously willing to take this mess and twist it to her advantage.  “I’m just saying, home-schooling exists,” she says casually into the vacuum.

Shiro feels his stomach drop even further.  It’s not that he doesn’t want to home-school Keith, it’s… more like he’s afraid of screwing up.  He knows it’s not personal, that his own downfalls won’t translate one-to-one to Keith, but the sudden fear still bites into him.  For the most part, raising kids has taught him to go with the flow—to let them pursue things on their own time, on their own whim.  If certain classes at school will keep them interested in going, then heck—let them take those classes.  But if he were suddenly in charge of trying to figure out how to keep them engaged, how to teach them, he’s not sure if he could do it.

No, that’s stupid—Keith is smart and he’d have Pidge and Hunk helping him, it would probably be easy for him to finish up his GED requirements and test out of school.  And besides, it would keep Pidge out of trouble.

Lance, it seems, isn’t on board with that option.  “You’re not going to punk out of school with us, no way!” he says, pushing Keith’s buttons the same way that he breathes.  “You and me are neck and neck, there’s no way you’re dropping out to do _homeschooling_ —"

“It’s none of your business what I do,” Keith says, testy, on edge.  Lance scoffs.

“He’s already behind, Lance—” Pidge starts, only to get cut off.  She’s grinning, though, like this is a reaction that she was betting on.  Shiro catches her eyes in the mirror and tries not to groan.

“What’s he going to do, give up?  Just like that?  God, that’s fucking lame—” Lance says.

“I’m fine!  I can do it!” Keith says back, biting.  “I don’t need to prove anything to you—”

“—That’s exactly what a loser would say, so I don’t think—”

“—can’t you just shut up and not stick your nose into—”

“—oh I’m the one whose always—"

Two minutes, and the back of the van devolves into bickering.  Allura aims a look at Shiro, and Shiro shrugs.  It’s better than them wading around in the mall fountain looking for quarters for the arcade machines.  Still, he’s caught up in thought for the rest of the drive home.

 

* * *

 

Shiro has learned in the past however long that Keith is an all or nothing kind of person.  Logically, either he’s going to finish school, or he’s going to completely flunk out.  This new homeschooling development—Shiro makes a mental note to bring it up again later—might be the thing that makes or breaks him.  If Lance and Pidge can light a fire under him, he might just make it through summer school and actually go to school with the others in the fall.  Preferably without any flunking.  Or maybe (Shiro tries not to shudder), public schooling will fall through and he’ll grasp onto home schooling.  Either way, as long as he decides he wants to do it, it’ll get done.

But what if he decides he doesn’t want to?

This is what Shiro is thinking about when the kids scramble out of the minivan at home.  He’s turning it over and over in his mind.  Will this actually work?  Should he look into home schooling as a fall-back plan now?  Can Keith get the support he needs either way?  He sure hopes so—he really doesn’t want to see the kid flop, especially not with the pressure he’s already under.  God, he hopes this turns out okay—

“Are you listening or what?”

Shiro blinks.  It seems as if Allura has pulled him out to the storage shelves in the garage while the rest of the kids scatter, grateful to be free from each other’s presences.  “Uh, say again?”

Instead of saying, she kicks a box off of a shelf.  The cardboard bursts open, letting out a spill of old clothes.  “If Keith wants them,” she says, and goes to kick another box.  Shiro intervenes, slapping her knee before she takes down the whole shelf.

“You know some of the things out here… weren’t mine, right?”  AKA despite The Purge, they still have some of her father’s things out here, mixed up with the rest of the dust-soaked detritus of the house.

She shrugs.  “Whatever.  Doesn’t matter to me.  Hey look—this one might have some old sports bras from cheer.”

So begins an actually profitable jaunt for clothing, one that brings Keith and Pidge (but thankfully not Hunk and Lance… the morning was quite enough, thanks) out into the garage to help look through what should have been sold at a garage sale ten years ago.

Shiro finds time to talk to Pidge whenever Allura and Keith disappear to try things on.

“Pidge, level with me.  Your plan to get Keith to go to school… do you think it’ll work?”

“Oh, sure,” she says, with a grin and a flick of her glasses.  “I’ve got all the dynamics of House Voltron figured out—just pull some strings here, say some things there, and everything will fall into place.”

Shiro sighs.  “I want to believe you, but maybe… maybe you shouldn’t be trying to meddle with this.  He’s under a lot of stress, and I don’t want things to go sideways on either of you.”

Their conversation stills as Allura comes back in, grumbling, only to grab something off a shelf and disappear again.  The moment the door closes, Pidge rounds on him.

“What do you mean, ‘maybe’?  Why the hell aren’t you completely on board with this?” she asks, annoyed.  She nails him with a glare and he shrugs helplessly.

“I don’t know if we can provide the proper support for him, that’s all.  You’ll be working on your AP stuff, Hunk and Lance will be preparing for graduation, and I still have to work.  What if we push and that push turns out to be the thing that breaks him?”

Her face sours.  “Well that’s just bullshit.  God, you and him are so alike!”

That takes Shiro aback.  By the way she says it, he’s not really sure what ‘him’ she’s talking about.  He tries to gentle his tone a little.  “I’m trying to figure out what’s best for Voltron.  Katie, I can’t help it that I’m worried about this.  He’s in my care.  And the rest of you, too.”

The door slowly opens behind them, but neither of them notice.  Pidge because she’s fighting off tears now, and Shiro because his heart is breaking watching her.  “He’s stubborn, Shiro.  Like, way too stubborn for his own good.  And so are you.  Just—ugh, just _listen to me_!  If we just do it right then he’ll be fine and everyone will be happy!”

She’s tying herself into knots, and he has no idea what’s going on.  She started talking about this like it was a science experiment—why is she so emotional all of a sudden?  “What—”

“God, just—you’re stubbornly clinging to this idea that you have to do everything perfect!  That’s not how it works, Shiro!”

“…Pidge.  Why are you so worked up about this?”

She turns away, wiping her face.  “I’m not.”

“You are.  What’s wrong?”

“Look, I’m just… trying to keep my mind off of things.”  And then, so quietly that he almost doesn’t hear her, she says, “I think the police got a hit on somebody matching Matt’s description.  They’re following it up but I don’t know… I think it’s too late and they’ve lost him again.”

“I think he’ll show up.”  Both of them whip their heads toward the door.  Keith has reappeared, seemingly unconcerned about the fact that they were nearly yelling two seconds ago.  Thankfully it seems like he missed the part where most of the yelling was about him.  That or he’s willfully ignoring it in favor of digging through a pile of stuff from a box marked ‘weird, kinda funky’ in Little Lance’s handwriting.  Pidge takes a deep breath as he holds up a pair of pants and makes a face.

“Here,” she says, digging into her laptop bag.  She hands over a pack of black leggings.  “I grabbed them at the mall just in case.  Y’know, because I doubted that we’d find any pants that won’t trip you.  Also, some of these look like they came straight from the disco era.”

“I’m not that old,” Shiro mutters.  He nudges Pidge with an elbow, letting her know that he gets it, that he’s not mad at her, that she can come talk to him later if it’s still bothering her so much.  She shrugs away, moving to pick at some of the clothes on the floor.

“Thanks,” Keith says, a little awkward, examining the pack in his hands.  He pauses, looking at the carnage around him—gutted boxes like ribcages flayed open and sweaters tossed around the room like intestines.  He still looks like he’s on the edge of being overwhelmed—not nearly as bad as it was at the store, but still significant.  Shiro wonders what it will take to make him comfortable.  God, there has to be something here…

That’s when Pidge holds up a shirt that Shiro recognizes from being a teenager in the late nineties.

“…Holy shit,” Keith breathes, and the air lightens considerably as Pidge lets out a giggle.

“Okay, give me that,” Shiro says, snatching the t-shirt out of the air.  “Not a single one of you gremlins has enough Shiro-points to make fun of my high school music taste.”

“Sure, Shiro, whatever you say,” Pidge laughs, but Keith has found another shirt.  He displays it, with his back turned to the other occupants of the room, like it’s the holy grail.  The album cover from Green Day’s album Insomniac spreads between his hands.

“Holy _shit_ ,” he says.  “This is amazing.”

Well.  Shiro relinquishes the shirt he snatched to Keith’s eager fingers.  That solves one problem.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HECK I really was not expecting the response I've been getting. Forgive me for slowing down production--I want to make sure it's as good for you lot as it is for me. I'm enjoying the comments--cheers!


	8. Lucky Week Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keith's mom has a diary, Hunk is looking for peanut butter, and Lance is stuck like glue.

When Shiro writes letters, he usually chooses to do it early in the morning.  Strategically speaking, it’s the quietest time in the house.  Lance has usually managed to nod off by three or four AM to grab a couple hours and no one else but Keith will be properly awake until noon—not even Pidge, try as she might to spy.  Keith has already been up—he paced around the living room for a half hour or so when the nausea wouldn’t let him sleep, according to Pidge’s sleepy grumbles—and is back in bed, so now is Shiro’s best shot at writing without noses peering over his shoulders.  Such is the beauty of summer break. 

Shiro sits at the kitchen table and loses himself into the pen and the paper for a while.

As rituals go, it’s a simple one.  There have been many people in his life that he doesn’t see anymore, who have… moved on, in one way or another, that he still feels the need to speak to.  Whenever he feels the words building up in his chest, he’ll take the stationary Coran buys for him (fancy stuff with Coran-approved patterns) and write until it feels like the pressure is easing.  Sometimes he writes to the kids who stopped by House Voltron but didn’t stay.  Sometimes he writes to old friends, the ones who he hasn’t seen since his failed attempt at college.  Sometimes, when loss is particularly heavy on the house, he writes to the people missing from the kids’ lives—their parents and family members who are too far to reach, for one reason or another.  Sometimes he writes to his brother.

Those letters he usually sends to Coran to burn.  He’s never sure if Coran reads them or not, but it’s cathartic for the both of them.

He’s startled out of his thoughts by Lance leaning over him to doodle an angry bird in the margin of a blank piece of stationery.  Shiro willingly gives that paper up, letting the kid use one of the fancy pens.  Things are still soft, quiet, for a few minutes as Shiro wraps up and lets Lance have a few moments to write out his thoughts.

A minute or two later, Lance carefully folds his paper into a crane and asks, “Why do you _still_ write to them?”

Shiro takes a deep breath and breathes out the stillness of the morning.  “We’ve talked about this, kiddo,” he says, sweeping up the letters so that he can start putting them in envelopes.  They’ve talked about this a lot.  There are many reasons why Shiro writes to the people who are no longer here—the ones who can still answer and the ones who can’t.

It’s some of the ones who are still alive that Lance is more stuck on.

“Yeah, yeah, you think that cutting them off will leave them with no real pressure to engage in better behaviors instead of finding new friends that completely condone it.  I know.”

“Who are you talking about?” Keith asks, yawning, as he ambles into the kitchen.  Pidge groans loudly from the other room.  It’s still only about ten-thirty, but the quiet has been broken.  Time to start on breakfast, probably—Shiro preps the envelopes so that he can get this done before the kids get hungry enough to eat him.  It’s too bad that Hunk won’t be awake for a while.

Lance stands dramatically, ready to use his hands to tell the tale.  “There were these kids who were here for, like, no time at all because they fucked up too bad.  They got taken out of the house.  Well, actually, Beezor could have stayed if he wanted to, but he and Nyma were siblings and they wanted to stay together and Shiro thought the least he could do was let Beezor go with her when she was pulled.  Lotor, on the other hand—Shiro couldn’t get rid of him fast enough, which is why I still can’t _believe_ he writes—"

“What happened?  I mean… what did they do?” Keith asks, cutting off Lance’s tangent.  He’s not completely at ease, but the spot he’s picked to lean against the wall is closer than he normally gets to Lance.

Lance wastes no time in diving into the trials and tribulations of Bonnie and Clyde, as he’s wont to call them when he’s feeling nostalgic.  Forgetting the fact that Nyma and Lotor weren’t around at the same time and have probably never met in their lives.  Oh, and the fact that Nyma, Beezor, and Lotor are all nicknames in the first place.  Shiro tunes it out in favor of writing out addresses. 

Until Keith asks, curious and a little hesitant, “Would you still talk to me if I got moved again?”

“Duh, have you even been listening to what these shits have done?” Lance says, rolling his eyes, but Shiro senses something deeper going on.  He turns to eye Keith.

“Why do you think I wouldn’t?” he asks, pen tapping.

Keith looks away, shrugging, but judging by the tense set of his shoulders he’s actually really concerned about this.

“You haven’t been half the shit that Nyma has,” Lance scoffs.  “Not for lack of trying, especially with that whole window stunt, but still.  And you’re definitely no Lotor.  There’s no reason you’d get cut off.  Unless there’s something worse than buying date-rape drugs ‘n hiding them under your bed, and you’ve done it right beneath our noses.”  Lance glares and leans in close as if trying to get him to stumble and admit something.

Keith gives up nothing, turning a much more impressive glare right back.  “If I have I’m not going to tell an arrogant loudmouth like you.”

Lance is staring a hole straight through the side of his head as if he wants nothing more than to pick apart his brain.  “Do you think we don’t like you because of the baby?” he asks suddenly.

Shiro’s mouth drops open.  “Lance!” he gasps.

“No, don’t ‘Lance!’ me!  I’m serious!  He thinks he did something wrong by getting knocked up.  Right?  I’m right, aren’t I?”

Keith only shrugs, his face suddenly devoid of emotion.  Out of nowhere, he’s a touch shy of completely blank, like he’s schooled his face into hiding away everything.

He says nothing when Lance starts to open his mouth again, turning on a heel and walking out of the kitchen.

“What did I say?” Lance asks the room.  The only response is Pidge groaning.

 

* * *

 

Two hours later, Shiro is just coming back from leaving the letters in the mailbox to be sent out.  He took a quick walk around the block to work out the last of his melancholy, heading back inside with his heart lighter than before only to find Hunk standing like a buffer between Lance and Keith.

“Just let it out,” Lance is saying, making a huge sweeping gesture.  “You can’t just keep everything bottled up, dude, you’re gonna explode.”

“Watch me,” Keith snarls, attempting to push past Hunk.  Hunk is taking his job of keeping them apart very seriously, a giant hand planted on each of their sternums.  Lance whines.

“What’s going on?” Shiro asks, and Hunk raises both hands in a confused shrug before he hastily puts them back.

“As far as I can tell,” Pidge says, barely looking up from her laptop, “Lance is stuck on something and Keith doesn’t want to deal with him.  A smart choice.”

“I’m not ‘ _stuck on something_ ’,” Lance mimics.  Keith’s face is rigid with anxiety that’s poorly disguised as anger as Lance rounds on him again.  “I just want to know what his deal is!”

Shiro almost groans.  He’s definitely stuck on something—he’s not seeing context clues right now.  Context clues such as how uneasy he’s making everyone.  Well, everyone but Allura, who walks right through the middle of the altercation to grab a snack from the cabinet and doesn’t even blink when she almost gets hit in the face by Lance gesticulating.

“Buddy, we’re not doing this now,” Shiro says.  Lance opens his mouth to argue but Shiro pulls him aside, holding him by the shoulders until he’s focused.  “Lance.  Listen to me.  I don’t know what you’re getting at, but you need to let this go.”

“But Shiro—”

“Nope.  Let it go, Lance.  Or else we’re having another mandatory Frozen viewing.”

“Jokes on you, I love Frozen,” Lance mutters at the ground.

“You threw the remote at the screen the first time the snowman showed up,” Shiro reminds him.  “Hunk had to lay on you so you wouldn’t dump out all the popcorn.  Now let.  It.  Go.  Okay?”

 

* * *

 

Lance, bless him, lasts a whole four and a half hours this time before breaking.  It doesn’t happen until they’re making dinner—Hunk and Lance mixing a sauce on the stove, Shiro showing Keith how Hunk likes to fold the pierogis.  Lance has been letting Hunk ramble about the recipe he’s trying (he got it from one of Ms. Shay’s cookbooks; it’s a family recipe) but apparently Keith has laughed at Hunk’s bright, catching enthusiasm one too many times because the next thing Shiro knows, Lance is at their station waving a spoon.

“Come ON, Mullet, there’s something that’s bothering you about the whole situation and if you don’t tell me—”

“Go cry me a river, Lance,” Keith snarls back.  Lance makes a move like he’s going to poke Keith in the chest with the spoon, but Keith knocks it out of his hand before it can even get close.  It clatters on the floor.  They’re nearly nose to nose, staring each other down, and Shiro resists the urge to throw them each over a shoulder and walk them to their rooms.  “What do _you_ know?” Keith spits.

Hunk fidgets and coughs, making them both turn to him.  “I mean… he’s not wrong?  Look, I was looking through your stuff the other day and I saw your diary—”

“My what?” Keith asks, his face darkening.  “You were in my room?”

Hunk holds up his hands.  “I wanted to make sure you had some snacks in there in case you weren’t feeling up to eating with us sometimes!  Also I was kind of craving peanut butter and Pidge hoards all of it—"  In the next room, Pidge whips her head around and glares through the doorway, and he backs up another step with a disarming smile.  “—and I really didn’t mean to, like, actually look at anything but it was there, you know?”

Keith is still frozen, his eyes twitching between Lance and Hunk.  “Do you mean the book with the purple symbol on the spine?” he asks finally.  Hunk nods and Keith relaxes just a little.  “That’s not mine,” he says, dismissively, like he’s willing the room to let it go.

Hunk frowns.  “But—”

“It was my mom’s.  Shiro—are we done here?”

Shiro looks at the half-made pierogis and sighs a little.  He catches Hunk’s eye who waves him off, managing to not look nearly as sheepish as he should.  “Yeah, we’re done.  We’ll be back when it’s ready, okay guys?”  Shiro rests his hand on Keith’s shoulder, guiding him out past the other boys with a Look at the two of them.  Lance gapes after them, his mouth opening and closing until Hunk stuffs a clean spoon into his hand.

“What do they want from me?” Keith bursts out, the moment they settle on the couch with Pidge.  He goes to draw his knees up to his chest, but the little alien—now the size of a plum—makes him settle instead with his legs folded to the side, his arms crossed tightly over his chest.

“If we knew what made Lance tick, we could probably find a mood stabilizer that worked for him,” Pidge says.

“Pidge,” Shiro groans. 

She shrugs.  “I mean, it’s true.  You know it’s true.” 

He does.  She still shouldn’t say it, though.  “I think,” Shiro says carefully, “that Lance is concerned about you.  He can be very perceptive, but tact isn’t one of his strong points.”

“Neither is thinking,” Keith mutters, and Pidge holds up the hand without the buzzer ring.  He gives her a quick high five then settles back into his defensive stance, staring out the window.  Things are… not exactly quiet, but nothing is currently exploding and that’s basically the same thing sometimes.

Shiro thinks about the letters.  He wonders if Keith has someone he needs to talk to, someone who is no longer here.  He has his mother’s diary in his room—what does that mean?

Shiro waits a few minutes before he says, “is there anything you need to talk about?”

Keith shakes his head vigorously, pauses, then shrugs.  He doesn’t actually say a word, just stands abruptly and walks out of the room.  Shiro expects him to be gone until dinner, or to even skip their evening meal and hang out in his room, but it’s not two minutes later when he walks back in, holding a book half-wrapped in a handkerchief.

This, Shiro assumes, is the diary.  It’s cheap and old, a journal that was probably bought at a dollar store that has faded from black to gray.  Just like he said, there’s a purple symbol drawn onto the spine—like a rune, almost.  The pages are messy and dog-eared.

Keith holds it close to his chest, gently stroking the edges of the pages with one finger.  “I, uh… I’ve never actually read it,” he says.  His voice acts like it’s trying to break, but he clears his throat and forges onward.  “But I know that it’s from when she was pregnant with me.  My dad held onto it for me until they um… took me out of his house.”

Shiro has no idea where this is going, but he nods along.  Pidge is pretending to type but she’s as focused on the conversation as he is.  Both of them wait while Keith takes a deep breath.

“I, um.  I don’t think I’m ready to… but I thought that maybe… you’d like to look at it first?”

Shiro tries not to show the fact that every single one of his internal organs are suddenly seizing.  His hand feels numb as he reaches over to take the journal that Keith is carefully holding out for him, pulling it into his orbit like he’s afraid the world is going to crack and glitch out of existence around him.  Pidge has stopped the charade, openly staring as the book passes from hand to hand.

“If you… if you want to,” Keith whispers, pulling his arms back and crossing them again.

“Keith,” Shiro says around the wad of emotion in his throat.  “Thank you.”

And he means it.  He knows enough about the other kids—even Pidge, despite her flagrant mistrust of authority—that small details are no longer earth-shattering things.  To be trusted with this… something that means so much to Keith… he can’t express just how much this means to him.  Keith smiles a little, a fluttering thing that shows just how nervous he is.

Shiro softens, cradling the diary and willing himself not to start crying because that would probably scare Keith off like a car coming at a rabbit.  “I’ll take good care of it,” he says instead.  “Maybe someday we can talk about it together?”

Keith nods in relief, going to sit beside Pidge again.  Shiro examines the diary, flipping it over and over, feeling the pen marks that are carved into the spine—the rune, a name, and a couple of characters in Korean.  It’s such a huge thing—a chunk of Keith’s past that he himself doesn’t know.  He wonders if the thing Lance was trying to get at the entire day actually happens to be this.  Maybe something hidden in these pages that Keith subconsciously knows, something that's putting him on edge.

Shiro doesn't know how Keith's mother died.  All the social workers said was 'deceased since he was little', waving it off.  Maybe it will be good to see what she was like.  Maybe it will answer questions.  Maybe her pregnancy with Keith will solve future problems that they haven't even encountered yet, long shot though it may be.

Still, he can’t bring himself to crack it open just yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :D Cheers!


	9. Week Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keith gets punked, the diary is opened, and Shiro is up way past his bedtime.

Ghosts are on Shiro’s mind as he heads home from work the next Friday, although it might be more accurate to say that he’s trying to keep them off his mind and failing.

House Voltron has seen a death or two, though thankfully not in years.  There are days when Lance sits quietly in Shiro’s room with a stained photo album that was rescued from the mostly flattened ruins of his old home, and Shiro feels the weight of a dozen warm, brown faces that do nothing but linger.  He’s used to it, by now.  Sometimes he is convinced that he can feel them, watching his every move as he takes care of their child left behind.  He’s mostly stopped looking over his shoulders, but the feeling is hard to shake.

The aura around Keith’s mother’s diary has already convinced him that another face will soon join the throng of spirits who vie for attention, despite the fact that he hasn’t read a single word yet.

He’s not scared, he insists every night, as he looks at his bedside table and the book sitting there.  He’s not avoiding it.  He’s just… occupied with everything else.  There’s a lot to be occupied by.  Puzzling through insurance forms is almost a full-time job, considering that he’s well aware that one box checked wrong could strain the House’s budget well beyond what he can reasonably fix.  Progress with Keith’s schooling is stalled out at 50% effectiveness as week eight of his stay at House Voltron rolls around.  Matt Holt has, as Pidge worried, slipped through the cracks yet again. 

So yeah, a lot is on his mind.  Actually, at this point, reading the diary of a woman dead at least ten years, maybe more, might turn out to be the least stressful part of his life.

When Shiro reaches the house, he’s barely two steps in the door when Keith abruptly gets off the couch, goes to the bathroom, and slams the door.  Shiro wonders for a moment if he can suddenly read minds.  Unlikely, he finally decides, turning to the rest of the kids.  Three of them are sprawled out in the living room, idling away with the summer projects that are keeping them occupied.  Allura, as usual, isn’t anywhere in sight.  He assumes she’s out with Rolo and tries not to sigh too heavily.  “Guys?  Is Keith okay?”

Hunk makes a face that can only be described as sympathetic, as Lance immediately starts to giggle.  “No, and I do NOT envy him right now,” Hunk says.  “He’s been doing that since—” 

Pidge slaps a hand over his mouth with a frankly terrifying grin.

“What happened?” Shiro asks, squinting at her like that will clear things up.  He shuffles to plop on the far side of the couch.  The kids make room for him.

As soon as he’s settled, Pidge whips out her phone and brings up a video.  Shiro grabs the device, bringing it close to his face so that he can squint at it instead.  Honestly his eyes aren’t getting better with age, and while Pidge has excellent reflexes, sometimes she’s too invested in capturing the moment to make sure she’s capturing it well.  Case in point: this video is so out of focus that it’s like looking through a sheet of ice.  There’s… Keith.  It’s blurred to hell and back, but he’s pretty sure.  He’s standing at the kitchen counter forking something into his mouth, head down over it.  He looks up as the camera shifts, and Pidge zooms out to show Hunk walking up to him.

“Hey, Hunk.  Sup?” he says, fork in mouth.  It’s barely loud enough for the mic to pick up.  The camera carefully starts zooming in again.

“Nothing much.  Just gonna snack, dude.”

Pidge’s voice rings, way too close to the mic.  “Hunk!  Ask him what he’s eating!”

Hunk humors her.  “What do you have, there?” he asks, leaning over.  Keith kinda shrugs, but shoves the plate over.  If Shiro had to guess, he’d say it was leftover takeout.

“Uh Keith?” Hunk’s blurry form says, in the voice he uses when he’s trying his best to be non-confrontational.  “You know that has sour cream in it, right?”

Keith freezes.  For ten seconds, no one moves—Pidge is holding in giggles, but she keeps her hand mostly steady.  Then Keith chucks the fork at the sink with a _clang_ and drops his face into his hands.  “Hhhhhhhhhhhh _FUCK_!” his tinny little voice says.  And then, “YOU KNEW, YOU KNEW AND YOU DIDN’T—”

The video abruptly ends with Keith leaping for Pidge, Pidge cackling all the while.

Shiro laughs despite himself.  “Oh, fuck you guys!” Keith calls from the bathroom.

“Happy two monthi-iversary!” Pidge calls back.

“ _That’s not until Sunday!_ ” he yells, over the sound of Lance rolling around on the floor clutching his sides.

* * *

 

The mirth doesn’t last, at least not for Shiro.  Ghosts are more insistent than insurance forms, and outlast even the longest fit of laughter.

After a dinner that Keith sits out, groaning, Shiro finds himself inexplicably drawn to his bed.  He settles in and just… stares at the diary for a few minutes that feel very incredibly loaded.  He’s stolen an older ultrasound from the stack on the kitchen table, intending to use it as a bookmark.  It seems fitting, seeing as Keith’s mother probably talks about her pregnancy, but...  he’s still unable to use it, unable to open the book.  He taps it on the cover, staring.

“Come on, Shirogane,” he mutters to himself.  He tries to channel an old Sargent, like that will motivate him.  “You made it through bootcamp, you can make it through this.”

Iverson’s voice is still clear as day in his head, and maybe it’s the sharp, stern memory of the man’s pinched, one-eyed gaze that finally convinces him to turn to the first page.

It’s hard to read.  At first, it’s because the entries are in Korean.  By the fourth dated entry she’s started to switch to English, but it’s choppy and she annotates all of her words with paragraphs in Korean.  As he goes, Shiro realizes that she must be teaching herself English.  The next thing he realizes is that she’s… young.  Maybe as young as Keith is, maybe younger.  Every week or so she adds an entry, two or three pages that talk about the books she’s trying to read, how Keith’s dad is doing, updates on growing baby Keith, and… she talks about the people they’re staying with.  It’s rarely good news.

She is very, very careful not to talk about whatever happened before she got the diary, unless it’s in the untranslated parts that crop up less and less entry by entry.

Twenty pages in, when she’s almost as far along in her pregnancy as Keith is now, Shiro learns that happiness hasn’t come easy to her.  She slips—little comments and self-deprecating remarks that sear Shiro’s soul because he can’t stop hearing her words in Keith’s voice.  It’s stressing him the fuck out, even worse than spreading out the bills on the table every week—he thinks he might be done for the night.  He sucks in a deep breath, slides the ultrasound into the pages to hold his place, and tries not let it warp into an omen.  _Like mother like son_ , his traitor brain says.

He wasn’t sure what he was expecting, talking to a ghost, but it’s making him all kinds of worked up.  God, he’s really got to get his mind off of this.  All of this.  There’s too much to think about, too much to worry about, too much pain, too much suffering.  He needs to see if Pidge has anything new on the Black Market, anything he can trade for to lighten the weight of the world even a little.

* * *

 

It happens more than he likes to admit—waking up unable to figure out what’s wrong.  Sure, sometimes the root of the issue is Lance, but there are nights when he’s forced out of bed NOT by a hyperactive kid.  Some half-cooked instinct that more often than not ends up just shrugging and going ‘well, maybe next time’ creeps up, and then he’s vividly awake with no one to blame.  He can’t help it.  He knows he won’t get back to sleep until after he does a walkthrough.

He supposes it’s a good thing that the paranoia isn’t worse.  He pokes his head into the living room, watches Pidge’s chest rise and fall for a minute or so.  He grew up in a very disordered place, before Coran.  People coming at all hours of the day and night, fights breaking out, the time the landlord came at eleven PM and started throwing furniture out of the house after the third call from the cops.  He has to admit, it’s left a mark, but the mark it’s left isn’t too bad.  It's certainly not as bad as it could be.

His feet take him to Allura’s room, which is lit with a string of lights that used to live in a box marked ‘for the holidays’ in Coran’s attic.  Only her feet are visible.  Shiro closes the door softly against the quiet, sweet lullaby that plays on loop.  Two more rooms to go, and then he can sleep.

Hunk and Lance are both snoring, which is a relief.  There are some weeks where Lance can hardly sit down, let alone sleep.  This is good.  Shiro yawns widely.  One more.  One more and maybe his brain will rest, too.

He eases Keith’s door open, ready to go back to bed, only to find two tired eyes peering back at him in the dark.  He sighs.  “Hey, you okay?” he asks, opening the door a little wider so he can lean on the frame and accept the fact that tonight the midnight instinct is correct.

Keith is laying on his back, his chin tilted toward the door.  He shrugs a little, raises a hand helplessly.  “I can’t tell if I’m hungry or just… empty.”

“Want me to get you something to drink?”

“No dairy, right?” he asks, a little wary.

“Nope,” Shiro says.  He waits as Keith shuffles and sits up, considering.

“…Yeah, okay,” is the final decision.

Shiro goes and makes two cups of tea, chamomile.  He stirs in some honey like a zombie, eyes glazed over.  He's awake, but he doesn't have to act like it.  “Did you really not know what was in the takeout?” he asks, coming back and handing a mug over.  Keith shrugs.  “Why on earth did you eat it?”

“It tasted good, Shiro, what was I supposed to do?  I didn’t see any cheese.  I took the chance.  And then I got fucked up the ass.”  Keith wrinkles his nose, huddling around his mug.

The thought processes of the kids never cease to amaze Shiro.  “No cheese,” he says, considering.  A thought strikes.  “I know you’re good with school; I see the way you try to break things down for Lance.”  Who doesn’t listen for shit, but that’s beside the point.  “Why won’t you do the work?”

That, it seems, is a question Keith doesn’t want to answer.  His face closes off.  “I don’t know,” he says, inflectionless.

“Do you actually not know?  Or do you know and you don’t want to tell me?” Shiro asks softly, pushing just a little.  He thinks back to the first real conversation they had, sitting on Keith’s bed next to the half open window, each cradling their own small cup of comfort.  ‘ _I didn’t want you to see_ ’ Keith had said.

Shiro, despite his best efforts not to, has seen some of Keith’s old school records.  The social workers keep sending them, like they think it’ll help somehow.  All they consist of is stellar grades offset by truancy and a frustrating amount of fights.

There haven’t been any fights since the one with Lance, so Shiro hasn’t the slightest clue what the social workers think he’s going to do with that information.  Punish the kid?  Keep an annoyingly strict eye on him?  Yeah, no thanks.

Sitting in the near darkness, averting his eyes so that Keith won’t bristle, Shiro knows that won’t work.  Keith has been hurt, that much is obvious.  He’s scared of a lot of things, and he pretends he’s not.  He’s hard to get to know.  He puts up walls.  His fight or flight is almost always set to fight. 

But still… sitting with him at night when neither of them can sleep is starting to become familiar, and at least that’s progress.  Shiro will take that.

He stands up, ready to bid Keith goodnight and maybe manage to catch a few more hours, but he’s stopped by a voice crawling across the distance between them.

“I know you’re worried about me.”

Shiro lets out his breath and half turns toward the kid, who is hiding his face behind his bangs.  “Yeah,” he says, factual, his voice as soft as the night.  “I want you to do… well.  Be well.  I want things to work out for you.”

He doesn’t mention the fact that Keith is seventeen, that in a few short months he can choose to leave and never look back, but it’s implied.  Keith shuffles, setting down his mug and running a hand through his hair.  “I know,” he whispers.

“Keith… what do you want to do?  Do you want to finish school?”  Do you want to keep the baby?  Do you want to stay?  Do you think you’re ready?  Have you thought it through?  He keeps himself from blurting all the questions out, but just barely.  Keith has said that he’ll stay.  He just has to have faith.  The rest of it is up in the air.

 “I, uh… think I’m gonna eat something after all,” Keith says, and that, too, is progress.  He laughs a little.  Then he stands, hovering at Shiro’s side, not touching and not looking at him but close enough that Shiro can feel the heat of his skin on his scarred stump.  “I don’t know, I think… I think I was lost for a while there.  Like I just… didn’t have a reason to stay where I was, but I didn’t have anywhere to go.  Maybe with you guys…”

He trails off, staring into the distance.  Shiro reaches across his body with his good hand and presses two fingers to Keith’s shoulder.  Finally, Keith looks over.  “You can do it if you choose to,” Shiro says, with a small smile.  “I’m convinced you can.”

Keith swallows and nods, his pale face solemn.  Shiro guides him out to the hall, pushes him gently toward the kitchen.  Then he finally retreats back to his own bed.  He sinks down into his blankets, turning over and over for a few minutes until he settles, on his back, staring unseeing at the ceiling.

He wonders what Keith’s mother would think of him talking to her son in the middle of the night, trying to offer any sort of stability like that will heal the wounds of the past.  He wants to think that she would approve, but that’s the thing about ghosts.  They never speak.

Silent observers, the lot of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Don't worry, the end of Keith's school troubles will come soon enough. Next chapter is going to be particularly heavy, though.
> 
> I'm always going to be sporadic with updates, but if you really want to hound me go ahead and throw a rock at the-ghost-of-keith-kogane.tumblr.com


	10. Week Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> House Voltron needs a cuddle pile very, very badly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, this is the chapter that talks about past non-con.

Shiro doesn’t touch the diary again for a while.  The past, he finds, stays steady.  It waits for him.  The present, on the other hand, is impatient.  He gets sucked into the ridiculous pressure of figuring out what to do with… well, everything.  Everyone.

When Keith officially hits his second trimester, Shiro has to bring up The Conversation again.  He’s glad that they’ve managed to avoid it so far, but enough is enough—they need to have a plan, they need to know what to do with the little alien when it comes.  And come it will—the reality of the situation has long since settled.  Other than being a little small for how far along he is, Keith is definitely showing signs of being well on his way to delivering a happy, healthy, completely unprepared-for baby. 

Shiro sits with Keith on the floor of his room, tossing out ideas into the soft afternoon light that’s trying to lull him to sleep.  Put the baby up for adoption—find support for Keith to take care of the baby on his own—absorb it into their current family dynamic.  It’s not long before Hunk starts pitching opinions from beyond the door, the kids eavesdropping from the hall like always.  Shiro sighs as they crowd in—Hunk brings up his moms and says that they might know someone who wants a baby, which is the first and last truly beneficial remark from any of them before the addition of the three youngsters completely derails the conversation.

From there the afternoon devolves into chaos.  Snide comments and crude jokes end up snowballing down the hill of Lance’s poor impulse control until Lance can’t seem to help himself anymore.

“Look, I don’t need a name, just like… what _happened_?  Was it like, prom night in Carrie’s town, you had sex with your boyfriend and then he left you for the weird psychic girl who then murdered him?  Like, is that why you won’t talk?  Did he die?”

“Nothing happened,” Keith says vehemently.  “And that’s not how Carrie ended.”

Lance guffaws.  “’Nothing happened,’” he mimics.  Keith, already stressed from the earlier conversation, looks like he’s ready to punch Lance in the face again.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Pidge says, laying an icy glare on Lance that makes her look like a lawyer advising her client not to talk to the cops.  “No one needs to know if you don’t want us to—"

Lance won’t give it up.  He’s caught on the thought, unable to let it go.  “Yeah, okay, but you’re dying of curiosity the same as I am—”

“Lance, maybe this isn’t a good idea—” Hunk tries, only to get shut down immediately. 

“Hunk, you can’t tell me you don’t want to know—"

“It’s not about my curiosity, it’s about whether or not Keith—”

“Keith wants to tell us!  Right Keith?”

“Keith, don’t rise to his stupid ass bait—”

“Shut _up_ , Katie!  Let him—”

“ _Lance_ —”

Keith holds up his hands, pausing the blow-out mid-explosion.  Lava and ash hang uncertainly in the air, waiting to see which way to fall.  Keith glares around at each of them in turn, before shaking his head and taking a deep breath.  His hands slowly fold up in his lap.  “I was in a boys’ home for kids like me—flight risks and problem kids and whatever,” he starts. 

The room goes quiet, everyone leaning closer.  Shiro can’t help that he’s doing it, too.  He considers cutting them off to watch Frozen, but… he’s been wanting to know this for so long, now.  Lance is practically salivating.

“Word got out that I was—that I’m not— _whatever_ , you guys know.  Stuff escalated and… and…”

“You don’t have to say it,” Pidge whispers.

Keith shakes his head again, a strange sort of fear/determination hybrid lighting his face like a flashlight from beneath, throwing his features into strange configurations.  Shiro can’t help but feel uneasy.  He’s speaking like he’s been waiting to say it, but also like it’s getting dragged out from somewhere deep inside of him.  Like he doesn’t want to let it out, but knows he can’t stop.  Like an animal in a trap—unable to keep calm, keep quiet, even if it means greater danger.

“There was one kid who was nice and it was… he was so nice to me, he’d give me things and come comfort me when everyone else was being shitty, so I let him get close and then before I knew it he was coming on to me and I couldn’t just say no—”

Shiro… can’t.  He just can’t.  He’s almost breathless, hearing those words.  “Bullshit,” he cuts through, startling the group.  It seems like they’d forgotten he was there.  Keith flinches and stares with huge, huge eyes.  “You can always say no, and if they won’t let you, then you fight.  If they don’t respect your boundaries, then you have no reason to respect them.  And no, I’m not kidding.  That’s just self-defense.”

Keith’s eyes only seem to grow wider, more frantic, like he needs them to understand.  “Yeah but… I didn’t have anyone else, I didn’t have any friends and I thought that if he couldn’t—that he would just leave and I wouldn’t—and I was the one who let him do it without the condom, anyway—"

“Keith,” Shiro says, softly, after he’s absorbed as much of that as he possibly can without exploding.  “He wasn’t worth it.  He hurt you.  You didn’t deserve that.”

Keith is getting so worked up.  Shiro can see it twisting in the flush on his cheeks and the trembling in his hands.  “It wasn’t bad, I know he was just curious so it was okay that I let him—”

“Buddy, that’s not okay,” Hunk says, resolute.  The way he says it leaves no wiggle room.  His anger settles over the group, and Shiro can see Pidge and even Lance resolutely nodding in agreement.  Lance has the presence of mind to look vaguely sick, now that he finally has the answers he’s been wanting all this time.  “That is so not okay.”

“You should have clawed his eyes right out,” Pidge says, matter of fact.

Keith still looks like he’s slowly having something delicate and soft ripped out of him.  “But I was the one who let him.  It was me,” he says.  It’s bitter and self-deprecating, an echo of his mother's words, and Shiro wonders if Lance regrets bringing it up yet.  _He’d better_ , he thinks.  He’s too angry right now to think straight.  He doesn’t feel like the adult anymore—he feels just like a pissed off kid who doesn’t have answers.

Everyone is quiet for a few seconds before Lance says, softly, “Sounds like a Sendak to me.”

“Yeah, definitely a Sendak,” Hunk says, jumping on the remark immediately.  The half-joke can’t hold the tension at bay for long.  Hunk is too mad to let it dissolve into proper laughter.  Shiro has seen him like this a few times before—the most recent was after Lotor.  “Takes what he wants, walks all over people, manipulates them into giving him stuff he doesn’t deserve… you’re way better off now that you’re out of there, buddy.”

“Oh,” Keith says, softly.  Like he doesn’t quite believe them.  Like he’s ready to backtrack, to drag all his words back into his mouth and shut it again forever.

“God, why did you stay there for so long after that?  Why did you wait like a month to run away?” Hunk demands, leaning into his space.

Keith shrugs, his face going blank.  No more room for emotions.  It’s like the day when Hunk picked him up—complete and utter nothingness, nothing under the surface.  They’ve pushed too far, and the defenses have gone up.  “It was fine,” he says, cavalier.  “It wasn’t like he was a bad person, like… not really.  I thought I might get him in trouble, so I left.”

“Keith… he doesn’t sound like a good person,” Shiro says, soft, the same way that he’d brushed Keith’s hair from his face, trying to catch his gaze.  An attempt to pull him back to the present, to reassure him that he’s not alone, that they’re still here.  He’s trying his hardest not to bristle, to not let his anger crash over Keith’s head, because Keith doesn’t need that.  The anger pushes against his chest cavity—it’s the anger that only exists for semi-trucks who turn left across heavy traffic… and now also faceless kids who have the morals of cartoon villains.

A crack appears.  Somehow, Keith is still trying to fight their words, to stop them from tearing down this wall.  “It was just that the other kids were assholes!  If it was just the two of us…”

“…I think you should tell me who it was,” Shiro says, his voice as soft as he can make it.  It still breaks.  “That wasn’t okay, someone needs to know what—”

“No!”  It’s like the entire room is buzzing with electricity as Keith huddles up, his arms crossed.  “No,” he says again, and wipes angrily at his face, more and more of whatever’s inside—the stuff that he shuts down to protect—starting to bleed through.  “It was my fault, okay?  I shouldn’t have said anything.  Just let it go.”

No one speaks for a good few minutes, exchanging looks over Keith’s bent head, until Pidge finds the courage to break the silence.  “Keith, do you want a hug?” she asks, nearly a whisper.  Keith shakes his head no, adamant.  He shakes his head, harder, and he drags in a breath—drags in another—tries to still his breathing, tries to ground himself, finds his composure slipping through his hands and suddenly he’s crying, the ugly kind that rips up through your lungs.  He cradles his face in his hands, rocking a little.

“It wasn’t his fault, wasn’t his fault—” he manages to say, through his fingers.  It sounds exactly like the mantras he sometimes repeats, the way he’ll loop apologies when he’s caught somewhere vulnerable and is waiting for someone to strike him. 

Shiro catches Pidge’s gaze from across the room.  He waits for the push-off, for her to tell him that he’s off the hook and she’ll deal with it.  It doesn’t come.  Instead, Pidge’s eyes demand that he _do_ something.  No more ‘I think you should let me handle this’—she knows that Shiro needs to move, so move Shiro does. 

“I know something that might help,” he manages to say, even though he knows that all he’ll be able to offer are mere band aids on an open wound.  Maybe it’ll be enough.  Maybe it’ll be just the right amount to make a little difference, to start the process of healing.  It'll have to be enough until he can call the social workers and... he doesn't know what he's going to do.  He gets up like his knees are numb.  Three sets of eyes follow him out to the hall—Keith’s gaze is hidden, crammed into the space between his knees as he hunches over his lap.  He looks like someone who thinks he’s made another mistake on top of a mountain of mistakes.  He looks like he’s ready for a hole in the ground to open and grind him up alive.

Shiro exits, and takes a deep breath.  Allura is on the floor leaning out past her door, head cocked to listen, just like he knows she will be.  Things don't stay private in House Voltron.  She looks up when she catches him in the corner of her eye. 

“So that was heavy,” she says.  It’s like a passing comment on the weather.  Half of Shiro wants to take her by the shoulders and tell her how awful it really was—how much his heart hurts—but the other half just shakes its head and lets her keep her distance.  God knows she deserves a break from the pain.

“Yeah,” is what he finally manages.  “Yeah it was.  Would you…?”

She nods once, climbs to her feet without using her hands in the way only a former gymnast can, and heads toward the kitchen.  “I swear, you guys do this emotional bullshit every other week,” she says conversationally over her shoulder, reaching for the mugs.

“We do it as many times as we need to,” Shiro says, smarting.  He can’t help but be little miffed at that.  But still, he feels that useless, nauseating knot of anger in his stomach starting to let up just a little.  He watches her go through the easy motions of filling the mugs, putting them in the microwave.  A breath oozes out of him, and with it his shoulders drop.  “We do this because it makes things easier,” he says after a moment, almost to himself.  “Because making it hurt in the short term heals the long-term ache.”

She shrugs.  “He needs to talk it out or whatever.  I get it.  Just means that I get hot chocolate while he figures it out.”

It’s cold, but Shiro can’t blame her.  Everyone in this house has been broken irreparably at least once.

* * *

 

That night, Shiro finds that he can’t sleep.  He’s wide awake when the door creaks open and a shape materializes in the near darkness, creeping to his side.  It’s Lance—he doesn’t use words as he climbs into the bed, rolling over Shiro to get to the other side, just like he used to do when he first came at the ripe age of eleven.  He curls up there, between Shiro and the wall, and in a few minutes his breath evens out.

The next visitor is Hunk.  He’s more polite about it—knocks timidly first, says an apology as he enters, asks for permission before he crawls up, already prepared with his own blanket as an offering.  He’s careful and soft as he lifts Lance’s warm body and slides underneath, cradling him close.  They both let out a sigh, almost in sync, as they relax against each other.

It takes a little longer for the next two to arrive.  Allura has to nearly corral Pidge inside, blocking her exit, before Pidge gives in and snuggles into Shiro’s side.  She’s a cold, hard line against him, even when she lays her head on his chest—unhappy and unwilling to accept the comfort.  She undoubtedly was yanked bodily away from her laptop, which makes her anxious, but if sleep is going to come tonight she’s going to have to accept the distance.  Allura would normally be even worse, snarling and biting when torn away from her phone, but there’s something about tonight that she’s understood to be different.  She barely makes a sound as she crams herself onto the edge of the bed, spooning Pidge and holding her tight.

He’s nearly dozing when the door opens for the last time.  He opens his eyes just in time to catch Keith backpedaling, obviously spooked by the sheer number of bodies in the small space.  Someone grumbles as Shiro extricates himself, but the four of them close the gap readily, cuddling up as if he was never there.  He shakes his head.

“Keith?” he calls, catches the pattering of pacing footsteps in the kitchen.  The noise falters.  Shiro turns the corner and finds the kid with his arms wrapped around himself, squeezed into the darkest corner.

For a second, it’s like watching fish tumbling around under the surface of a murky pond.  Keith’s face moves in the darkness, his lips twitching, as if he’s trying to find words.  They don’t come—the fish continue to flit, barely seen, too far to reach, uncatchable.

“Are you okay?” Shiro says, choosing to throw crumbs.

It takes a moment, but there’s finally a bite.  Bubbles break the surface.  “I’m sorry,” Keith says. 

“What’s wrong?” Shiro asks, wanting to reach out.  His tired, aching skeleton yearns to wrap around this kid, to protect him, to make him feel better.  He’s not thinking straight—his brain is still caught up in the cuddle pile in his bed, lethargic with the overwhelming urge to protect them all.  He misses living with Coran, seeking him out on nights like these.  He misses his brother.

“I can’t sleep, I keep thinking about… I… I thought he…”  Keith’s voice is carefully neutral as he swallows and finally says, “I thought he cared.”

Shiro’s heart shatters.  He’s trembling, shivering from head to toe, his hand shaking like he’s going to fall to pieces, and Shiro finds that he can’t stand on his wobbly knees anymore.  He lowers himself to kneel on the floor.  “Come here?” he says, tries not to make it a plea, but dear god he needs to hold this boy.

To his utter wonder, Keith comes.  His limbs are cold, his hair like doll-hair when it falls against Shiro’s neck—his stomach is warm where it presses against Shiro’s side.  Shiro clutches him close, the stump of his right arm curled around his back and his left hand cradling his head.  He rocks a little, trying to stem the flow of emotion he’s experiencing—the pain of endurance after a loss, the desperate phantom aches of watching the kids hurt from things he can’t fix, the need to make it better.  “I’m sorry,” he whispers into black hair.  He’s crying when Keith wraps both arms around his neck.

They make hot chocolate, just for the two of them, settling into a pile of pillows in Shiro’s room to sip it slowly.  They’re near the end of the bed, leaning against the wall and pressed up against Lance and Hunk’s feet.  Keith gets tucked into Shiro’s chest like a much younger kid than he really is: cradled, hugged close.  Shiro doesn’t remember finally falling asleep after that, after one of the longest days he thinks he’s ever had—he just remembers gently rubbing Keith’s back, listening to the rhythm of bodies in the room, the layers of little snores and Lance mumbling in his sleep.  He remembers finally relaxing, knowing that they’re all there, within arm’s reach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all have no idea how long this chapter has been basically fully written. I HAVE BEEN WAITING.


	11. Week Ten: A Turning Point

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lance gets unstuck, Shiro is caught up in hipster drama, and the secrets of the diary start to unfold.

“God, he’s like… the protagonist of some stupid hipster drama.  I mean just look at him, with his old t-shirts and his staring out the window and his… fucking… tragic backstory.”

“Lance, what the fuck?” Hunk laughs.  The two of them are side by side at the kitchen counter, supposedly counting out servings of pasta so Shiro knows when to buy more.  For the last fifteen minutes Lance has been doing nothing but glaring across the room at where Keith is sitting, headphones on, watching the old cottonwood tree outside blowing dandruff all over the yard.  Hunk shakes his head, a smile on his face, as Lance just squints harder.

Pidge, spelunking the cabinets to check on their spices, is less amused, as is Shiro.  It’s been a week since the cuddle pile, and something about it is rubbing Lance in a very wrong direction.  Shiro has tried to suss it out, tried to get Lance to talk, but Lance has been oddly resistant to any and all attempts to drag it out of him.  It’s gotten to the point where Pidge feels the need to threaten him with the shock ring every time he starts muttering to himself, like a maniacal dog trainer—and yet he still finds time to say things like _that_ as he stares a hole into the back of Keith’s head.

Shiro is starting to think that the thing Lance is stuck on is Keith himself.  Unfortunately.  He’s got no idea how to go about getting him unstuck, because as of today, all of his usual methods have failed.  He’s running on empty, here.

Pidge shares a look with Shiro, and Shiro turns back to his checklist to let her have at it.  The leashes are officially off—he has no more control.  It's a decision he'll probably live to regret, because typical Pidge-fashion is going for the knees right from the get-go.  Honestly though… something has to give, and if anyone is good at finding weak points in a structure, it’s Pidge.  Maybe the Hard Way will work.  Who knows, right?  Not him.    

“At least he doesn’t get weird and mopey and whine about the Iron Giant because of his tragic backstory,” she says, matter-of-fact.  Right at Lance’s metaphorical knees.

Lance sputters.  “What the _fuck_ , Pidge—”

“All I’m saying is that you’ve been getting up in his shit for no good reason.  Like yeah, we learned some pretty fucked up things about him.  Does that make you feel like you’re inadequate as a foster kid?”

“Oh god, what is happening,” Hunk moans, covering his face and peering through his fingers.  Lance crosses his arms and hunches over.  Shiro can’t help but find it very reminiscent of Keith’s defensive posture.

Pidge persists, staring down at him from her perch atop the counter.  “Are you mad that he’s getting all the attention?  Why exactly do you feel this need to belittle him when he’s literally just enjoying the view outside?”

Okay, so maybe that was a little harsh, and maybe Shiro should have taken this on himself instead of leaving Lance to the wolves.  “Guys—” he starts, only to get cut off by Lance.

“I’m not _belittling_ him.  It’s not like I’m some schoolyard bully making fun of him so he’ll give me his milk money or whatever.  It’s just that sometimes he’s insufferable.  And okay, so yeah, maybe sometimes I start feeling a little jealous or whatever but it’s not like—it isn’t as if—listen, there are only so many— _hhhhh_.”

Shiro waits, but Lance can’t seem to get anything else out, his mouth opening and closing as he frowns.

Pidge has the audacity to smirk.  “See what I mean?  No good reason.”

“Hunk!” Lance whines, flailing a hand up at Pidge as if asking for assistance.

Hunk raises his hands.  “Listen, maybe you should just _hang out_ with him.  I know you two would get along great if you tried!  …Probably.”

“Well, maybe that’s a bit of a stretch,” Pidge says contemplatively, but she shrugs.  “I don’t see why you shouldn’t do it, though.  Hang out with him, Lance.  Come to terms with whatever thorn is in your side so that you can let it go.”

Lance turns his pleading stare onto Shiro, who can only shrug.  “I got nothing, kid,” he says.  They’ve watched Frozen twice in the last week.  He’s fresh out of ideas.

“Fine, I’ll do it,” Lance says, crossing both arms and sinking into a chair so he can put his feet up on the table.  His lip curls in a pout.  “But only because you guys are assholes and I’m going to prove you all _wrong_.”

That’s how, later that evening, Shiro finds himself driving the two of them to the movies to prove himself wrong.

* * *

 

He expected them to last longer.  He honestly did.  Sure, he knew the bickering would crop up at some point during the movie—two hours is a long time for them to get along—but five minutes in?  The trailers literally just ended!

Shiro sighs.  “Kids, if you’re going to do this, at least wait until you’re out of the theater,” he whispers, casting a glance backwards at the rows of people resolutely trying to ignore them.

“Yeah, _Lance_ ,” Keith spits.

Lance squawks.  “No, you know what?  We _are_ taking this outside—right now!  Move it!”  And suddenly Keith is getting shoved out of his seat and manhandled down the aisle.  Shiro shrinks into his own seat, scrubbing his hands over his face, before he, too, gets up and heads out.

“What is your _problem_?” Keith demands, rounding on Lance the moment they're outside.

Shiro comes up beside them, ready to intervene, as Lance puffs.  “You!  You and the way you just—are so perfect and everything and—and and—god, you don’t even realize it!”

“What… the fuck… are you talking about?!”

“It’s just like… how can you have gone through _all of that_ and still be like…”  Lance gestures uselessly.  It’s a moment far more vulnerable than he probably wants to admit—the way he motions to Keith like he thinks the world of him, like he’s under Keith’s shadow, like he’s nothing compared to Keith.  “I mean like… you’re perfect.  You’re smart, and you do things without even trying, and it’s just—I don’t get it!”

Finally, Keith seems to comprehend.

“I don’t know why you think so much of me,” he says, wilting.  “It’s not like I’m Shiro—I’m just a kid who fucks up all the time.  You don’t need to make me your rival, or need to prove anything, because I’m not… actually… better than you?”

“God, can you not even _see it_?”

“I can see just fine!  I just don’t understand what the big deal is!”

Lance paces away, paces back, opens his mouth, snaps it shut.  He spins again, running his hands through his hair.  “It’s—it’s—god it’s— _fuck_!”

“ _Lance_ ,” Keith says, taking hold of Lance’s shoulders.  He’s mimicking the gesture Shiro uses to ground him, Shiro realizes.  His eyes flit over to Shiro for just a moment, asking if he’s doing this right, and Shiro gives a little nod.  He refocuses on Lance, holding his gaze.  “I get good grades but I have a hard time with school.  I _suck_ with people.  I have flaws. And I really, _really don’t understand what the big deal is_.”

Shiro isn’t sure what’s going to happen now.  The boys are both silent for a minute or two, frowns on their faces, staring at each other.  The security guard at the far end of the hall had started pacing toward them when their voices got louder, but now that it’s quiet she’s just keeping an eye on them from a distance.  A few people walking past with popcorn stop to stare, but not long enough for Shiro to feel the urge to grab the boys and move them somewhere less conspicuous.  Keith looks jittery, like he has to focus really hard to keep his hands where they are, but he's holding steady.  Lance just looks vacant, a store with a blinking ‘closed for business’ sign on the front.

Then he starts to giggle.

“What.  The fuck.”  Keith twitches, taking his hands back.  “Why are you laughing at me?”

“Dude, we just totally stormed out of a movie theater,” Lance says.  He sounds like he’s feeling a lot better now.  Whatever the heck that was, it’s out of his system now.  Thank the stars.  He clutches his stomach, laughing.  “Drama level: fifteen out of ten—oh, _man_ , that's one for the books!”

“It was your fault!” Keith says, and throws his arms in the air.  Lance just laughs harder, until he’s doubled over, gasping.  Keith awkwardly pats his back, rolling his eyes.

Shiro, meanwhile, can’t hold back his grin.  These kids.  They're going to kill him.  After a minute for Lance to catch his breath, they head back inside, and despite the fact that Keith now looks completely lost plot-wise, the rest of the movie rolls without a hitch.

* * *

 

At home, Shiro is quick to fill the others in on what happened.  The kids roll their eyes good-naturedly, a common response to Lance shenanigans, and Hunk tells him that he did a good job and to “go take a nap, you look tired, Shiro.”  Shiro agrees with that assessment. 

Still, it feels like a cop-out to just go to sleep after all the progress they made today.  He decides on a compromise—he’ll read some more of the diary, and then he’ll call it a night.

He reads a few entries, carefully taking in each word she writes, before curiosity gets the better of him and he starts flipping toward the back.  He wants to know how the story ends—he’s never been good with sad stories, and the heavy nostalgia from the movie earlier has him feeling particularly wary.  He needs to know, right now, if there’s a sad ending.  Does she get better?  Is she happier, after everything happens?  Or does she continue to spiral down?  Is that what ultimately kills her?

He stops suddenly when he realizes that the handwriting has changed.  Instead of wide, blocky lettering the penmanship is thin and slanted, cramped on the page.  Someone else’s writing.  He keeps going, slower, looking for Keith’s mom’s hand.  He doesn’t see it again.  Just more of the new handwriting, and a new addition—drawings, sketches really.  A woman with long black hair.  A baby smaller than any he’s ever seen, wrapped up in a diaper too big for it.  A teeny, tiny hand holding onto a finger.  There’s a photograph tucked into a make-shift pocket in the back—a man he assumes must be Keith’s father, holding a preemie baby delicately in his arms.  His face is hidden from the camera.  Shiro can’t tell how old he is.  Either of them.

With a frown, Shiro turns back the pages, looking for where the handwriting changed.  He’s getting closer when he sees the word ‘funeral’ and his heart stops.

“Oh, no,” he says to himself.  The pieces he has—a preemie baby, a lack of writing, a funeral—are not adding up to anything good.

He slides out of bed and goes looking for Hunk.

He finds him, unexpectedly, sitting with Allura in her room.  Well, 'with' isn't exactly accurate.  He’s got the innards of a radio spread out in front of him, chattering away about whatever he’s doing.  Allura, on her bed, clearly isn’t listening—she very obviously has headphones on, blocking him out—but he doesn’t seem to mind.  Or maybe he hasn’t noticed yet.  He gets excited about projects and gets tunnel vision sometimes.  Not nearly as bad as Lance, but Allura barely has patience for it on the best of days.  Speaking of Allura, Shiro catches her flicking one eye up to him before she pops her gum and sinks further into her mattress, glued to her phone.  She doesn’t acknowledge his presence again.

It takes a moment to catch Hunk’s attention, and he immediately tries to draw Shiro in, describing the circuit board he’s holding.  Shiro smiles apologetically as he settles beside him and says, “Sorry, Hunk, that’s not why I’m here.”

Hunk puffs out a breath.  “Fine, but just so you know, with a few tweaks we could be catching talk shows from two states over.  How cool would that be?”

“Very cool,” Shiro agrees.  Then he bites the bullet.  “How much of Keith’s mom’s diary did you read?”

Hunk tips his head to the side, considering him.  “Oh, uh… not that much, I guess?  I just flipped to a page in the middle and read a few entries.  She didn’t even talk that much about anything, so don’t worry.”

Shiro sighs.  “I’m glad you didn’t break his trust too badly, but…”

Humming knowingly, Hunk starts fiddling with the circuit board again.  “It’s pretty heavy, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.  I wish I could just… talk about it.  Keith says he’s not ready yet, and I respect that, I do.  It’s just…”  He stills, trying to find the right words.  “…it's hurting my heart,” he finishes, finally. 

“Yeah, but it’s all in the past.  That diary is what, like, almost two decades old now?”

Shiro sighs again, rubbing the scar on the bridge of his nose.  “Yeah.  Still.  I can’t shake the feeling that I haven’t even gotten to the worst part yet.”  There’s a tragedy in those pages, he can feel it.  And even if it reads like a story, even if he knows these events happened long ago, his brain won’t stop whispering about violence, heartbreaks… infants, mourning, loss.

“Well, tell you what,” Hunk says, breaking him out of his thoughts.  “There’s a pie recipe I’ve been meaning to try.  Ms. Shay gave it to me—she says it’s for special occasions, so I haven’t really had a reason to pull it out.  When you get to the end, we’ll make it.”

Relief blooms in Shiro’s chest, and his mouth hooks up in half a smile.  He takes a moment to be astoundingly grateful for the kids in his life.  “I’d like that," he says softly, heartfelt.

“Good.  Now _please_ let me tell you about this tech, it’s incredible and I need to tell _someone_ —"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These chapters were mostly done already, so please don't expect another update for a bit. We can't always have that three-chapters-in-two-days bliss, much as I would LOVE TO.


	12. A Weak Eleven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Allura gets the mail, the boys get along, and a truce is made... possibly to be broken.

Today is the day that Shiro gets his shit together.  He’s determined—he’s going to do it.  Family shit, joint-custody shit, _heirloom shit_ will be compacted and ready to rumble by the end of the day.  No more rattling around trying to anticipate fights and being completely overwhelmed at every OB/GYN appointment.  Grab the bull by the horns?  He’s going to do that _AND_ sort out THE SHIT OF THE BULL.  THE BULLSHIT, IF YOU WILL.

…He may have woken up this morning to Lance standing in his window yelling motivational phrases at the neighbor’s sprinklers, but that has nothing to do with his work ethic, thank you very much.  Honestly, he’s been meaning to catch up on his reading for the past two weeks at least.  Keith is well into the second trimester of his pregnancy (sixteen weeks he’s sixteen weeks along everything is _moving so fast_ —) and Shiro is not prepared in the slightest.  Alas, things got in the way.  Things like the mail.  He doesn’t want to think about it.

Right now, he’s sitting in front of the Other House Voltron Laptop—the one that Pidge hasn’t all but glued to her face—casually using Coran as a human shield while he covertly peruses pregnancy websites.  There are four kids spread out across the kitchen table, one Coran sitting like a goalie with his casual glass of questionable liquor, and then, on the far end, Shiro.  He was the first there—choosing the head was a strategic maneuver.  He’s not oblivious.  He knows he’ll never live it down if the youngins catch him in the act. 

Which is all pretty normal, really, except for the fact that Lance and Keith are side by side, elbows almost touching, nary a cross word between them.  Shiro’s been waiting on a blowout ever since Coran swept in that morning, and it hasn’t… happened.  It’s been a good day.  For Keith, anyway.  No panic or dysphoria in the morn, no worried ‘he just isn’t participating’ calls to home from the summer school instructors, and he’s now got his homework spread out on the table like he might actually do it.  Willingly.  With Lance nodding along and occasionally _helping_.

It’s a frightening concept, having the two of them get along.  What if they start _teaming up_?  Lance and Pidge are already a nightmare when they scheme together, it’s terrifying to imagine what Keith will add.  At least there’s no reason to worry about Hunk. 

Usually.

As if he senses Shiro watching them, Keith picks his head up and blinks.  He’s sitting cross-legged on a chair, one of Shiro’s shirts hiked up around his hips.  Even though they’re still absolutely huge on him he seems to prefer them to borrowing Allura’s t-shirts or having to go buy more.  His tummy is barely visible under the tumble of fabric.  Shiro was never exactly _small_ —just less-muscled and more-muscled.  It’s unsurprising that Keith practically swims in his shirts.  Shiro’s on a website that tells him that the baby is now the size of an orange.  He’s just completely blown away by that.  Even if this particular baby is a slightly underdeveloped, smaller-than-average orange.

Shiro gives a little wave, a flick of the purple prosthesis, and Keith throws a peace sign back before getting back to work.  Shiro fends off no small wave of pride, watching more discretely now as the kid tears into the take-home test he’s working on.  Beside him, Lance is alternating between shouting over everyone else who’s talking and helping him check answers.  Every time Lance cracks a joke, Keith gives him a tentative smile that has Pidge hiding her own grin into her laptop.

“And that’s how they came to understand that we are all, in fact, human,” Hunk intones, finishing the story of the movie theater for a very intrigued Coran.

“I blame Keith,” Lance says, as soon as the narration is over.

Keith flips open a textbook and shoves it at the other boy.  “Would you shut up and accept that we had a bonding moment?” Keith says, but it’s light and playful in a way that the house hasn’t been in a while. 

“Nope, never happened,” Lance says, idly flipping a pen.  The way he wiggles his eyebrows as he says it completely undermines his casual flippancy, however.  He’s trying to get Keith to laugh, and a moment later, he succeeds.  It’s a sweet and very, very welcome change.  The tides are turning—wary fighting becomes playful bickering.  A war-torn kingdom mends its rifts.  Order is restored.  The shit of one bull is quietly put to rest.

“They’re finally working together,” Hunk says, wiping away a tear.  Shiro isn’t close enough to tell if it’s real or for show.

“Not to mention,” Pidge says in a bright voice, ignoring the way the boys both look up suspiciously.  She throws an arm out to Hunk, who immediately starts a drumroll on the table.  “… _Keith’s finally not flunking out of school_!”  She elbows Keith’s arm, leaning over from the stack of placemats she’s using as a cushion.  Keith wrinkles his nose but does a valiant job of ignoring the ribbing.

Coran strokes his mustache, sitting back in a chair, gaze bemused.  “I see,” he says, eyeing them all.  He’s twinkling merrily in a way only he can.  “Was this in your, ahem, plan, Number Five?”

“Well, not particularly,” she admits.  “I thought that getting Lance riled up would challenge Keith into doing his homework.  I didn’t factor in them getting all twisted up over each other and then bonding, but hey, it all worked out in the end.”

Lance squawks.  “I was not _twisted up_ —"

“Oh, according to him, it wasn’t ‘bonding’—” Keith says at the same time.

Pidge cuts them both off, laughing.  Voices climb, defenses are staked, and Coran’s boisterous guffaws fills the house. 

Trying to hide his own wicked grin, Shiro lets their teasing simmer in the background.  He clicks on a website that tells him How To Prepare For Your Planned C-Section.  This stuff is… whoo.  Anxiety-provoking.  He’s going to have to… yeah, he’ll have to write this stuff down.  Maybe next time they go to the doctors he can ask some questions.  He’s got so many of them. 

“—never even let me try,” Lance is saying, precariously close to whining, as Shiro gets up and starts rooting around for a notepad.  They're on the topic of martial arts now.  He’s probably talking about his parents.  They weren’t really the sporty type—they were grooming him more toward civic service and possibly seminary school, like his older brother.  It wasn’t until he came to House Voltron that he started swimming.

“One of my homes let me do Jiu-Jitsu for a while,” Keith says, nonchalant.

“Oh, you have GOT to show me,” Lance says, perking up.  “Coran refuses to teach me Tai Chi; he always says it’s too much for my small, primitive brain.”

Coran smiles and taps his nose as Shiro rolls his eyes.  It’s less of a ‘refusal’ and more of a ‘Lance can’t keep his grades up, do marching band, swim, AND do Tai Chi at the same time without everything devolving into chaos’. 

Keith scoffs.  “Yeah, I’ll get right on that,” he says, and rolls his eyes.

“Well not right now, obviously.  But you’ve got to exercise even when you’re preggers, right?  Isn’t that a thing?”

“Uhhh…”  Hunk and Pidge exchange identical bewildered looks.

“Oh, come on, one of you has to know!  I was the baby of the family, help me out here.”  Lance holds up his hands in a pleading gesture.

Pidge bristles.  “I was the baby too, you ass!  I’m _still_ the baby!  And Hunk was the only child of a pair of elderly lesbians, be respectful!”

Deciding to jump in before they start a battle for rank, Shiro holds up a hand.  “Pregnancy heightens the chance of sprains.  The hormones loosen ligaments.  They say moderate exercise is good, though.”  He doesn’t look all the way up until the room goes silent, and when he finally lifts his head, he’s faced with three sets of incredulous eyes, a smirk from Keith, and one teary, proud Coran.  “What?” he asks.

“How did you just rattle that off?” Lance demands.

Oh, here it comes.  “I’ve been clicking on a lot of articles,” Shiro says defensively.  He holds the newly acquired notepad to his chest.  “Y’know… learning things.”

Lance makes a sickening cooing noise, quickly followed by Pidge and Hunk.  “ _Awww_.  That’s fucking cute, Shiro.”

“To be fair,” Keith says, coming to his rescue as the other three continue to make nauseating noises, “I’ve also seen him reading the Mayo Clinic page on impaired taste.”

Shiro isn’t sure if he’s grateful for the rescue or… not.  Especially as everyone doubles over, laughing, while Lance howls, “Impaired WHAT?  You mean you can lose your sense of _taste_?”

Well, _shit_.  He’s not living that down for a while.

 

* * *

 

 

Shiro knew Keith was stubborn when he set his mind to things, but watching him strong-arm his way through a month-and-a-half’s worth of homework is… something else.  He’s got a frankly terrifying focus, to the exclusion of almost everything else, especially now that Lance has wandered off.  Half a sandwich from lunch still sits at his side, despite the fact that dinner was served an hour ago.  They’re the only ones left at the table, but Keith shows no signs of slowing anytime soon.

Offhand, Shiro wonders when Allura will make it home.  It might be today… might be tomorrow… it was the mail that set her off, and when that happens all bets are off.  Now _there_ is a pile of bullshit that he just can’t budge.  It arrives every day, you’d think he would know how to navigate it by now, and yet…

In the past week or so he’s started to field a higher-than-usual amount of college brochures.  Now that Hunk and Lance are heading into their senior year, the number arriving every day has ramped up exponentially.  The brochures themselves aren’t so bad—maybe a little wasteful, but not (usually) morally repugnant.  Allura’s reaction to them, on the other hand, is… generally unpleasant, and always excessive.  One well-meaning comment from the mail lady as Allura brought in the mail early today and suddenly it was shred-city, followed by her storming out the front door.  He’s got no grand delusions that Allura would have willingly spent the afternoon hanging out with everyone, but it’s still a bummer to pick up angry confetti from all over the living room floor before he’s even gotten Hunk up for breakfast.  He’s lucky that he was riding high from Lance’s impromptu window sermon.

When she was a kid, Shiro would mix her some chocolate milk and they’d talk.  She was very mild-mannered when she was in school—she couldn’t be mean if she tried, and refusing to sit with him was too rude for her little heart.  That was where the hot chocolate came from, actually—Hunk knew a really good recipe, and it stuck.  Then there was The Purge, and Pidge arrived, and now… well, now they’re here.  

To be fair, he finds it completely normal to feel upset when there’s mail with a postmark from Alfor’s Alma Mater.  Though when it happens to him he doesn’t usually feel the urge to rip said mail to pieces and flee the premises.  The problem is that Allura doesn’t talk anymore, hot chocolate or no.

He pushes it from his mind.  He has to believe that she’ll talk when she’s ready.  Besides, other than that today has been a glorious day.

That’s the moment that Allura chooses to come in, covered in mud from nearly head to toe, obviously having just been dropped off via four-wheeler by Rolo and his friends.  She glances over at the table and snorts before she starts peeling off her outer layer so she can make it to the shower.

“Where have you been?” Keith asks, distracted.

She shrugs.  “Out.  Congrats on the homework, I guess.”

Keith stares at her.  Shiro usually hopes that the kids don't say stupid things, but he can clearly see what's forming on the tip of Keith's tongue and for once he hopes that he DOES say something stupid.  Something to crack her open, something that will break down her walls.  She’s the most fortified person in the House, even factoring in Keith himself.  Shiro has been trying for years.

Of course, when the question actually comes, Shiro wishes that Keith had just... kept his mouth shut.  

“Why don’t you go to school?” Keith asks, and just like that, it's all over.  They had such a good thing going.  They were batting a thousand today!  Well, no longer.  Shiro winces and waits for it to crumble.

“Don’t want to,” Allura spits, struggling with a boot.  Her face hardens and she gets aggressive as she tugs.  “Now shut up about it.” 

Keith squints at her.  Glances from Shiro to her and back again, like he’s waiting to see if he’ll get in trouble, but Shiro can’t meet his eye.  He pretends to be invested in a site about lactation, letting the kid decide on his own whether or not to poke the bull.  Allura finally gets the boot off, tossing it down the hall toward the laundry room with a thump. 

Finally, Keith asks the million-dollar question.  “…Why?”

Well, this is happening.  In one swift motion, Allura rips off her other shoe, hurls it hard enough after its partner to leave a muddy footprint on the wall, stalks away, and slams the door to her room.

Keith’s eyes are about the size of plates.  “What’s up with that?” he asks.

“Don’t worry about it,” Shiro sighs, and gets up.  It’s obligatory, at this point.  He catches her in the hallway as she heads from her room to the bathroom, standing in front of her so she won’t just barrel through him.  He crosses his arms and lets his shoulders slouch, trying to come across as small and non-threatening.  “Allura,” he starts, letting out his breath.

“Nope.  Don’t even.”  She tries to go around and slam the bathroom door, but Lance darts past at the last second, blocking her way with a yell about having to pee.  A bold move.  She slams a hand on the door instead and turns the other direction, leaving another muddy print.  Shiro winces.

“Are you guys talking about counseling?” Hunk asks, leaning into the hall, Pidge at his side.  They both move with the unease of those who have Seen This Before.  “Sorry for listening in, but it sounds like you were about to bring up counseling.”

Allura looks like she's ready to scream.  God, they’ve done this so many times.  The script is so obvious at this point that all Shiro has to say is Allura’s name in That Specific Tone and the whole House knows what’s up.  He wonders if Pidge has a plan for this, too.  He’ll have to ask because as of right now, he’s officially been out of ideas for _months_.

“I’m not doing that,” Allura grits out, and it sits like concrete on the air.  She’s getting good at shutting it down whenever it comes up.  “It’s fine for Lance and Pidge and whoever but _I’m not doing that_.”

Shiro is debating what to do now—is today a good enough day to push or should he let it go?—when Keith lets out a low noise behind him.

“I’m going to counseling, too,” he says.  He’s leaning over his paper with his bangs brushing against it, pencil paused.  His other hand is under the table—maybe pressed against his stomach, where no one can see.

Allura breathes out, hard.  “Good for you,” she says stiffly.  Shiro can tell that she’s making an effort not to antagonize him, but her cold tone still makes him curl up a little more.

He doesn’t back down, though.  “I’m not telling you what to do, I’m just saying—sometimes it helps.”

A rookie move.  Why didn’t Shiro warn him before he opened his mouth?  Ah, regret leaves such a bitter taste.  At this point, Shiro is implicit in his imminent murder.  RIP, the both of them.

Allura inflates with a cold, regal fury that only appears when she feels well and truly threatened.  “You don’t know anything about me,” she sneers, turning her nose up to glare down.  They are fifteen feet away from each other and Shiro still sees the way Keith flinches back.  “You are an outsider, Keith.  Keep out of it.  In fact, _all_ of you better keep out.  It’s none of your _business_.”

Keith’s grip on the pencil is so tight that his knuckles are going white.  His eyes dart up and lock onto Allura’s face, and suddenly instead of air, the room is full of plasma, dancing between them.  Pidge and Hunk slowly back away, taking refuge in the Blue Room.  Lance is silent in the bathroom as if he’s scared of coming out. 

Shiro stands right in the middle, in no-mans-land, regretting everything.  “Okay, everybody take a deep breath,” he says softly to the charged air.  Like that will really make a difference.  But like he said, it’s obligatory.  “Both of you sit down, we’re making hot chocolate.” 

“I’m working,” Keith snarls, his brows heavy and tight over eyes that haven’t budged an inch under Allura’s ice-cold glower.  The hurt on his face is only visible under a ton and a half of anger, brought to a boil like a castle’s defenses.  He is molten metal pouring from the mouths of gargoyles on the roof of Notre Dame.  Allura is a poisoned apple, slipping between delicate red lips.

“It’s time to take a break,” Shiro says.  He’s speaking to both of them, calling an unofficial truce.  He puts both hands on Allura’s shoulders, eases her into a chair opposite Keith, and though she’s as rigid as a glacier, she goes.  She softens by the measure of about one cotton ball when he sets a mug in front of her, never taking her eyes off of Keith, daring him to say something else.  He doesn’t.

They drink their hot chocolate like it freezes solid on their lips, two ice statues carved on either side of an insurmountable chasm.

When they’re both done, Allura takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly.  “I didn’t mean to make it seem like you don’t belong here,” she says finally, stiffly.  “But you do, so I’ll tell you that there are a few things that I… don’t… talk about.  Okay?”

“Yeah, sure,” he says.  He doesn’t meet her eyes again, refocusing on his work.  Shiro isn’t sure if he just doesn’t want to talk anymore or if he understands that this is an offer to let it go before anyone gets hurt.  Does he realize that this struggle is an heirloom?  That the pain is one of the only things Allura has left of her father? 

Maybe.  Maybe not.  Maybe neither of them realize how similar they are.  Allura nods and stands, leaving dirt in her wake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy hell, I've been unsatisfied with this. This is a little bit of a filler chapter... not much happens. It's the future that holds the real meat. Trust me, though... it's worth it.
> 
> Take what you can, give nothing back.


	13. Week Twelve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Lance's birthday, Allura buys some mice, and Shiro has a late-night conversation with someone he's not expecting.

_This is it_ , are the last words in Keith’s mom’s handwriting.  There’s a blank page, like a moment of silence, before the new handwriting begins. It says:  _We lost her_.

Shiro gulps down a huge breath, trying to keep his hands steady as he closes the diary.  God, he thought he was ready.  He was _wrong._

How was he so _wrong_?

He wants to curl up into a ball.  Nestle into his bed and refuse to move.  Cry until he can't cry any more.  Find some sap to solidify in.  Become a bug frozen in amber.  He just needs a moment to himself to mourn a woman he never knew. 

…Which is impossible in this house, and now he has to pretend that everything is fine as Lance’s voice crescendos down the hallway.  Lance, decorated like a crepe paper mummy, slides into the master bedroom going approximately sixty miles per hour, throwing the door into the wall on his way.  He crashes onto his knees on the floor, arms spread wide, and shouts, “Happy birthday to _meee_!”

It’s Lance’s birthday.  They’ve been planning this for months.  Time to shake this off and get himself together or Lance is going to run him straight into the ground. 

Shiro subtly kicks Lance out of his room to steal a few minutes alone in the bathroom.  He channels a face-scrub commercial like maybe if he splashes enough water on his face he’ll forget everything he’s ever read and still he somehow steps out into a world of chaos completely unprepared.  The entire living room is full of balloons up to the knees.  Two steps in and he gets a face full of silly string.  He cracks a smile and scoops Lance into a hug, twirling him around a few times to make him laugh before he takes refuge in the kitchen where Hunk is packing lunch.

He isn’t doing so well with the whole shaking-it-off thing if Hunk’s pointed looks are anything to go by.  Thankfully Lance is too preoccupied with their plans for the day to notice.  It’s fine, he’s fine, he’s a master of disguise.  He doesn’t even feel a single negative emotion when the doorbell starts to ring. 

There are eight seats in the minivan, and four seats in the truck if people are okay to squish.  Lance has managed to fill them all.  People arrive.  A LOT of people.  In no time at all, there are twelve kids climbing all over each other, ready to be on their way.  In charge of the van, Shiro takes the driver’s seat and adjusts his mirrors five or six times.  Allura’s driving the truck, so Keith is allowed shotgun.  From there it’s layer after layer of chaos—Hunk, cradling the food goods; Lance and Plaxum, already squealing at each other; Axca, Narti, and Ezor.  Allura, Rolo, Pidge, and Zethrid in the other vehicle.  Coran, waving cheerfully from the sidewalk after delivering a super-secret present that Lance has promised to open later, in private.  There are gifts crammed in every possible nook.  Plastic packs of bottled water drifting in the truck bed as Allura pulls out and takes the first curve just a little too sharp.  Pop station on, full blast.

They’re going to the Natural History Museum, and Lance is PSYCHED.

If Shiro’s honest with himself… he drifts a little.  The kids basically auto-sort themselves into a buddy system, leaving him free to get caught up in his own melancholy.  Occasionally he has to herd Allura and Rolo back towards the main group before they’re arrested for loitering, or send Hunk after Plaxum and Lance when they get distracted by a horseshoe crab in the live animal exhibit.  That’s easy enough.  He checks in with Keith a couple of times, but with Lance mostly occupied by other friends, Keith is having an easy enough time being out and about with the family.  It’s… simple.  It’s manageable. 

They have a picnic in a park a few blocks away from the museum, and Lance could not be happier.  He croons over Hunk’s special birthday treats, nearly cries when they pull out a box with a mermaid cake, and not fifteen minutes later he sneaks some of the frosting from the lid of the box and swipes it right across Keith’s face, jump-starting a bitter frosting-battle that leaves everyone sugar-coated.  Shiro licks sprinkles out of the joints of his hand. 

The day ends after they spend some money walking around downtown.  Lance and most of the younger kids sprawl out, their feet in the fountain, enjoying the afternoon sunlight.  Allura and Rolo lay in the grass nearby, playing with four mice in a little cage that Shiro bought on impulse when they detoured into a pet shop to play with the puppies because what the hell.  Just what the hell.  Life is short.  Maybe he’s feeling particularly gracious today.  Maybe the diary and Lance’s birthday are making him feel softer, more giving, than usual.  Maybe all these kids deserve better than what they’ve been given.

What can he really say—the grin gracing Allura’s face is rarer than a sun shower, and completely, utterly worth it.  The argument last week hit her so hard—she guards many, many layers of half-healed wounds, a world’s worth of pain and hurt.  She doesn’t get involved in the drama of the rest of the house not because she’s above it all, as she pretends, but because she knows how much damage she’s already sustained.  She deserves to be happy and Shiro doesn’t always know how to let her know that.  The mice seem to be helping already, at least a little bit.

Shiro smiles, and it’s only _half_ half-assed.

 

* * *

 

 

From there the day is nothing but a vast, multi-colored whirl.  Shiro knows they all get home, somehow.  He knows he manages to provide dinner and movie snacks, and that by eleven PM almost everyone is in a pile on the living room floor, fully invested in the annual birthday screening of the Iron Giant while they lazily bat balloons at each other.  Except, of course, Allura and Rolo, who may not be allowed to be alone in Allura’s room in case they set off the fire alarms but are certainly not participating in the movie-watching shenanigans.

Shiro walks outside to savor the quiet for a second.  There he finds Keith, nodding off against the arm of one of the porch chairs.  He starts, lifting his head up, when he hears the door.  Shiro hums to let him know who’s out there with him.  They don’t have to talk.  He sits down in one of the other chairs, sinking into it and fully appreciating how weary his skeleton feels. 

“You guys celebrate a lot,” Keith says after a moment.  “I don’t get it… the balloons seem like such overkill.”

Shiro shrugs noncommittally into the darkness.  The balloons are neither here nor there for him.  Lance, in particular, likes them—he’ll blow up whole packs on his own without breaking a sweat.  He’s the main driving force behind all the razzle-dazzle in the House.

“Aren’t there easier ways to do it?” Keith asks, like he’s been puzzling it over for hours and still hasn’t come up with a satisfactory answer.  There’s a pinch at the bridge of his nose, a question mark that won’t work itself out.

“Sometimes easier isn’t better,” Shiro says.  He pauses, looks out at the sprinkling of stars that he can barely see above the roofs of the houses across the way.  How to phrase this so it makes sense?  “Lance gets… worked up about things.  A good worked up, sometimes, but either way, all that energy has to go somewhere, you know?  Why not let him get it out in a way that lets him show people how much he cares?”

Keith opens his mouth to comment and instead yawns widely into his hand.  “…Fuck,” he mumbles.  “I’m exhausted.  I’m gonna crash and be dead for twelve hours, at least.”

That shouldn’t make Shiro as sad as it does.  Keith’s mother died nearly _eighteen years ago_ , for fuck’s sake. 

He’s struggling with this burden of knowledge as Keith slouches further in his chair and mumbles something else about how the mice are pretty cool.  One hand is propping up his nodding head and the other curls around his stomach, protective.  He’s been doing that more and more recently—maybe because the baby bump is more obvious now and it makes him nervous going out in public.  Or maybe it’s something else.  Shiro closes his eyes. 

_This is it._

_…_

_…_

_…_

_…We lost her._

Someday he’s going to have to tell Keith about the diary.  He’s not scared of having Keith know exactly what it contains.  The kid can handle it.  A sizeable chunk of him just really doesn’t want that to be part of Keith’s reality, part of his history.  Why does every kid in the system have to have a story like that, anyway?  The only exception to this rule, barely, is Hunk, and Hunk was abandoned as a baby and pulled out of his moms’ house because some douche down the street got offended about two women taking care of a kid together.  Allura lost her mother at the age of two to cancer and her father at the age of ten in a horrific, completely preventable accident.  Pidge?  Lost her dad and brother in violent, mysterious circumstances and was kicked out of the house by her transphobic, grieving mother.  Lance—obsessed with kids’ movies and both willing and able to blow up a pack of balloons by himself _Lance_ —attended the funeral of thirteen close family members at the age of eleven and then bounced around from distant relative to distant relative until there were none left who could take him, much less keep him. 

Keith’s mother died _almost before he was born_.  He was forced to leave his father’s care at the age of eight because it was unsafe, only to wind up in a group home where he was hurt and left on his own to deal with a womb with a baby growing inside.

Shiro just wants to be able to give them a break, even just once.  One break.  One single time when life isn’t trying to completely fuck them over.

He sighs, rubbing his face.  For now, all he can do is nudge Keith properly awake and get him to his bed.  They climb over the tangle of bodies lying on the floor, trying to steer clear of flailing limbs.  Shiro tells the human pile that people are starting to go to sleep so they’d better keep quiet, and Lance shoots some finger guns at Keith from where he’s lying with his head on Hunk and his feet on Plaxum.  Keith waves him off, eyes barely open, telling him to have a good rest-of-his-birthday, Loser.  Lance blows a raspberry.

Shiro mourns, silently and to himself.

 

* * *

 

 

Shiro walks through the house later that night and finally, achingly, feels less distant.  He had a dream about Alfor, and he thinks that’s why he woke, but he really isn’t sure.  But, since he’s up, he might as well check on everyone.  Who would he be if he didn’t do a headcount at one in the morning when he can’t sleep?  It’s grounding—he’s grounded.  More so than he’s been all day.

He’s in the kitchen, trying to make a cup of tea as quietly as possible to not disturb the pile of bodies in the living room when there’s a knock on the window next to him.  He just about jumps out of his skin, spilling boiling water on the counter.  Aaand now it’s on the floor, too.  He sighs, throwing a dishtowel at the mess before he turns back to the window.

Coran grins at him from the other side, making an exaggerated gesture toward the door.  Shiro sighs again, more enthusiastically, and goes to let him in.

The thing about Coran is that he’s seen a lot of active fighting.  He joined the military as a nurse when he came to the states and was near the front lines during some pretty bloody battles.  He lives his life on a strict, militaristic schedule that cuts his time into manageable segments of productivity interspersed with planned downtime and stringent, three-hour naps.  Like Shiro, he’s often up in the middle of the night, though he usually prefers to go for a brisk walk around the neighborhood like the kooky old man he is.  Occasionally, their paths cross.  Coran spots a light on where there shouldn’t be and before Shiro knows it he’s inside the house, stroking his mustache and prompting some of the hardest, most frustrating late-night conversations that Shiro has ever had.

Tonight proves to be no different.

“Say,” Coran stage whispers, tip-toeing past the kids.  “Have you given any more thought to our conversation a few weeks ago?”

Shiro rubs his face, waiting for the kettle to fill again so he can make a cup of tea for Coran.  He glances around at the kids, to make sure that no one is listening in—the only one who seems to be awake is Pidge, and she’s got headphones on.  “Are you referring to the conversation where I asked if Portal 2 was a good gift for Lance and you told me adoption papers would be better?”

“That one, yes!”  Coran smiles, waiting for an answer.

Shiro tries not to sigh again.  He’s got a self-imposed limit on how many times he’s allowed to sigh in Coran’s presence.  “Coran, look, I know why you think it might be the time, but… most of the kids are already seventeen.  Or older, in Allura’s case.  Keith turns eighteen in like three months.”

Coran waves him off, undeterred.  “You keep asking me ‘when do I consider them mine?’ and Shiro, I’m telling you—if you’re asking that question, they already are.  You know this, they know it.  Right?”

“…Right.”

“So what’s the holdup?”

Well, for one, it’s a lot of work.  With everything going on… getting Lance, Hunk, and Keith ready for what is hopefully their last year in school… trying to reason with Allura… the pregnancy, the diary… he’s got a lot on his mind at any given moment, and that’s not exactly conducive to getting things straightened out with the agency.  For two, Pidge tries to jump ship whenever someone matching her dad or brother’s description winds up in the hospital.  For three, they’re still holding out hope that Hunk’s moms can win their court case.  And for four…

…well, for four, Shiro has managed to avoid thinking about it until now.  Until Keith arrived it always felt like he was waiting for something else, someone else, maybe.  House Voltron was unfinished, a team with one player missing.

Now that Keith is here, Shiro honestly doesn’t know what to do with himself.

Ignoring Coran’s expectant look, Shiro turns toward the living room and sips at his tea.  He watches Lance kick in his sleep like a puppy.  Pidge, half awake and groggily scrolling Tumblr, shoves back with one toe.  It’s domestic—it’s safe.  They fit together like any family should.

God, maybe it is time.  He’s been long-term housing for most of these kids for years.  He’s survived The Purge, Lance’s diagnosis, several run-away attempts from Pidge, and Keith trying to climb out the window for a pregnancy test.  They’ve made it, together.  He can’t imagine any of them choosing to leave the House permanently before they turn eighteen and, judging by the way Allura’s life is going, it might be much longer than that before all of them take flight.  This… could be it.  They don’t have room for anyone else.  They fit, they work together.  What’s he really waiting for?

_This is it._

Shiro drags his hand down his face.  Yeah, okay.  It’s time.  It’s definitely time.  He finally gives in to the sigh, but it leaves his lungs as if several tons of rock have been lifted off him instead of air flowing out.  This is relief, he guesses.  The question has been hanging over him for a long time—since Hunk, really—and now he finally has the right answer.

“Fine,” he says.  “When I get some time, I’ll set up a meeting with the foster agent.  Are you happy now?”

“Utterly delighted!” Coran says, giving him a good whack on his stump.  He grumbles and rubs the forming bruise.  He’ll live to regret this, he’s sure he will, but fine.  He’ll adopt the damn broken orphans.  Assuming they want to be adopted, of course. 

A smile creeps up on him, and before he knows it Coran is pulling him into a hug that feels like it should break his ribs.

 _This is it_ , he thinks, and for a moment the words are almost reverent, miles away from the black, seeping cloud they’ve been all day.  Maybe Keith’s mother shouldn’t have died.  Maybe Keith should be happy, at home with both parents, right now.  Maybe nothing should have gone wrong in the kids’ lives.  But it’s okay because even after five lifetimes of tragedy and catastrophe, five lives fraught with tears… they’re here.

They’re here, and this is where they belong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know Keith's birthday is tomorrow, I know that. But listen, I couldn't post the chapter where they celebrate it because it's got some MAJOR spoilers. You gotta take this instead ;)


	14. Week Thirteen, With Luck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lance gets 'pranked', big concerns come up, and Shiro enjoys his caffeine.

Keith has been plowing through homework, making up missed time.  School, real school, starts in two and a half weeks.  It's creeping along the horizon like the worst kind of storm cloud—he tells Shiro that he’s ready, that he can do it, he’s determined to do it.  This is something that Shiro knows for a fact is true.  He has never, in his life, seen someone bully schoolwork into submission through sheer force of will.  Until now, that is.  Keith will have to take some time off in January when the Little Alien comes, but until then, he says, he’ll fight his way through.  Then he strikes an anime pose to make Pidge laugh, smiling to himself as she doubles over cackling, nearly knocking Shiro’s BATDAD coffee mug off the table.

“Please never do that again,” she says, trying to hold herself together.  She’s nearly wiping tears from her eyes, bracing herself on her plate of leftover beef stroganoff.

“What, the Voltron pose?” Keith asks innocently.  He’s obviously very pleased with himself.  She erupts into more peals of laughter.  Shiro sips from his now-safely-in-his-hands mug.

“What’s going on, did I miss a reference?” Lance demands, sticking his head in.  He holds up one of the last cans of silly string, pointing it threateningly.  “Keith!  You never told me you knew how to make references!  What the hell, man?”

Keith blinks as a pointer finger prods his chest.  “Sorry?”

Lance shakes his head, squinting, finger and can still at the ready.  “What other secrets do you have?” he asks, crashing into the chair beside Pidge and stealing her fork.  He shies away when she displays the shock ring.

Probably a lot, considering the fact that every time Shiro learns something about Keith he feels like an extra in an action movie, watching some guy drive his car over the edge of a cliff, screaming.  But Keith doesn’t say anything about his sordid past—instead he shares a sneaky look with Pidge, who is red in the face and barely keeping a lid on the obviously boisterous giggles that want to escape.  She slyly raises her phone.  Shiro settles further into his seat to watch.  He’s got no idea what they’re up to, but whatever it is it’s going to be good.

“Hey, so… you know how everyone’s named after that show?” Keith asks, nonchalant.

Shiro and Lance share a confused glance.  Shiro has as much of a clue where this is going as Lance himself does, so he just shrugs.  “Uh, duh,” Lance says, eyebrows quirked.  He taps the can on the table impatiently.  “I was the one who did the naming.”

“I have a… confession.”

A confession?  What…?  Shiro still has confusion plastered all over his face, but judging by Pidge’s reaction Lance just fell for a piece of bait.  Lance, unknowing of his own imminent demise, grins; he still hasn’t noticed the fact that Pidge is creeping closer to his side, recording.  “Oh?  A juicy tidbit?  Do tell, Keithy Boy.”

Keith sets it up perfectly.  One hand on Lance’s shoulder, leaning down so he’s close enough to whisper, he stares straight into Lance’s eyes like he’s about to bare his soul before he says, completely and totally serious, “…I got my name from that show, too.”

Oh.  Shiro frowns.  That was the secret?  The huge, mystifying confession?  Well if that’s all… he’s got paperwork he could be doing.  He sighs and stands up to put his mug in the sink.

Lance’s jaw, meanwhile, is flopping on its merry way all the way down to the tile.  “FUCK OFF.  There’s no fucking way.  You mean Keith came from _Keith_ —?”

Keith nods.

It takes a moment for the news to kick in, and then Lance is screaming like a kid who was just presented with tickets to Disney Land.  “OH MY GOD, SHIRO, THIS IS THE BEST DAY OF MY _LIFE_ —” he shrieks, and three seconds later he’s rolling around on the floor, face bright red, making inarticulate noises.  The can of silly string lets out a rattling whistle and the last of its treasured contents, strings of foamy goop, shoot into the air before they fall lazily back onto Lance’s writhing form.  Pidge follows him, keeping the camera tight on his flailing limbs, and Keith stands above them both, a hand carefully guarding his grin.  He meets Shiro’s eyes, and Shiro sees bright, cheery mischief there. 

“You knew this would happen?”  Shiro frowns at them.  How long have they been planning this?  Keith only smirks, popping a snide eyebrow.  “You broke him on purpose,” Shiro realizes, now aghast.  He puts a hand on his chest—he put his heart _and_ soul into raising these kids, only to watch both succumb to the pits of hell as the children smiled cheerfully.  These children are _demons_.  Soul-sucking demons.  He’s unleashed monsters unto the world.  He needs… more coffee.

 

* * *

 

 

At least they’re polite monsters.  Sweet, polite, and oddly nervous monsters.  Shiro blinks over his new reading glasses (who knew that glasses came that cheap at Costco?  Coran, apparently) and tries to bring Keith into focus.  “You want to talk to someone you lived with?” he asks, double-checking that he heard right.  Having his eyesight slowly deteriorate is one thing—he’s really hoping his hearing isn’t following suit.

“Yeah.  Not… not who you’re thinking of.”  Good, because Shiro was thinking of Sendak.  That conversation is going to happen over his dead body.  Or at least when he’s not in the room.  He needs to be unaware and completely oblivious to it.  He relaxes a little.  Not fully, because this is a house of mischievous, conniving imps, but Keith looks completely honest right now.  Shiro gestures for him to continue.  “I just wanted to check in with one of the families I was placed with.  Like, uh… like you do?  With the letters,” Keith clarifies.

Well.  For the longest time, Shiro thought the only one who would ever show interest in the letters was Lance.  No one but him and Lance really feel the need to send letters to people they don’t see often, or at all.  Hunk calls his moms whenever he wants to talk to them, and Pidge has completely cut contact with the members of her family who she could still theoretically contact.  It’s always been Shiro’s secret desire to share the soft magic of those early mornings with more of the kids.  Though it isn’t morning right now, and nothing in the House is currently soft OR magical, not with the way Pidge and Lance are screaming at the TV while Shiro sweats over budgeting.  Okay, so maybe this is less of his ‘secret desire’ at play and more about his not-so-secret desire to do literally anything else but act like a responsible adult.  Whatever.  No one needs to know that.

“Anything in particular you’re gonna write about?” he asks, reaching for the cute little box that he keeps the stationary in.  He picks through his pens, looking for the right color for Keith.  “How you’re doing in school, maybe?”

Keith shrugs at that.  “I mean, I don’t think they’d… take well to my situation.  The Little Alien or the truancy.  But I think maybe they might want to know that I like being here?”

“You do?”

“God, Shiro, why do you look so surprised?”

He doesn’t, he swears he doesn’t.  It’s just… it’s just so nice to hear it.  Nuts, he’s gonna cry.  He’s adopting these kids.  He’s doing it.  It’s going to happen.  It’s too much.  “Fuck—can I hug you?”

Keith folds into the hug easily enough, but he can only stand it for a few seconds before he wriggles free.  It’s still painfully obvious that he’s not comfortable initiating contact on his own, and gifted touches are only accepted half the time.  It's progressing, Shiro thinks, letting him go and rubbing quickly at his eyes.  It gets easier all the time.

Of course, the easy part was not meant to last.  Shiro has been forgetting, lately, that Keith has only been around for thirteen weeks.  Barely more than three months.  It seems so long, with everything that’s happened, but Allura’s barbs still ring across the house when the kids go silent, when disagreements crop up—outsider, she’d called him.  With thirteen placements in nine years, Shiro knows this isn’t the first time that has come up.  It’s easy to see that he still feels outcast, still others himself when there’s no one around willing to actively tell him otherwise. 

When he’s freed from Shiro’s arms, he fiddles with the hem of his hand-me-down shirt and Shiro senses the mood shifting that direction.  “What’s up?” Shiro asks softly. 

“It’s just… you say all the time how you’re glad I’m here, and I want to be here, but…”

“But?” Shiro prompts, trying to convince his heart to still in his chest.

Keith has an expression that makes him seem smaller than he really is.  “I know how expensive it is,” he says quietly.  “So I understand if you have to… you know.”

You know?  No, he doesn’t know.  Or at least, he’s trying his hardest not to.  “I’m not going to send you away, Keith,” he says, hoping to shut the conversation down.  The words might come out a little harder than he meant them, considering how Pidge glances over sharply from across the way.  Lance is still distracted, but the Littlest One’s razor eyes have been pried from Portal 2 and it doesn’t look like she’ll be sidetracked again anytime soon.

“But just in case you have to,” Keith is saying.  “House Voltron is more important than one person.  I know that.  I wouldn’t be mad.”

“Keith, he would make Allura sell the mice before we got rid of you,” Pidge calls over, trying to be reassuring in the sharp, almost dismissive way she has.  What she doesn't mention is that he would have six consecutive garage sales before he forced Allura to give up the mice, as is becoming more and more obvious every day.  There's a hierarchy, and Keith is nowhere near the bottom.

Keith just shifts from foot to foot, avoiding eye contact.  Noticing his fidgeting, she sets down her controller and tries again, forcing Lance to scramble for a moment trying to keep them both from dying.  “Honestly, we have like six boxes of party supplies that Lance bought and then forgot about.  We’re not kicking you out because you’re expensive.”  She nudges her glasses up, frowning at him.

Lance hums, his tongue caught between his teeth as he concentrates.  “Yeah… has Pidge ever told you about the time we saw an Atari console at a junk shop at the mall?  Because dude, we have like a hundred sacrifices we could… make… before we shoved you off—fuck, we’re dead.”  He sighs, abandoning his controller and setting a stink-eye on an unconcerned Pidge.  “You’ve killed us.  We’re door-nail dead.  I hope you’re happy.”

She waves him off, standing up to come poke Keith in the shoulder.  “Whatever, the match was unbalanced anyway.  Anyhow, what the fuck is up with you?”  She prods at Keith, giving him a Look of Significance that Shiro can’t make heads or tails of.  The kids often have in-jokes and memes and whatever that he doesn’t catch onto, as evidenced by the show this morning, but the number of times it’s happened already today is weirding him out a little.  Something is up with these two.

From Keith’s expression, he’s maybe rethinking bringing it up within earshot of the others.  With a sharp look around the room that Shiro pretends not to notice, he covertly takes Pidge by the elbow and leads her a few steps away, where they proceed to knock their heads together and whisper, agitated, for a minute or so.  Then Pidge breaks away with an unaffected shrug, leaving him with his arms crossed, pouting.  He takes some stationary and leaves, holing himself up in his room.  Shiro watches as Pidge folds herself on the couch, kicking the controller that Lance tries to hand back to her.  What’s that about?  It’s all highly suspect.

Shiro frowns, and waits until later in the evening so he can catch Pidge on her own to ask about it.

 

* * *

 

 

His moment comes at eight PM that night, when Hunk and Lance have retired to their room and invited Keith in to watch funny videos with them.

“Can I ask you something?” Shiro asks, casual as you please.  Pidge glances up for half a second, grunting.

“Uh… yeah?  Just let me finish up this code.”

Okay, so maybe this isn’t the moment.  Waiting on Pidge’s programming can take anywhere between two minutes and three hours, so Shiro goes to check in on the boys while he waits.  He doesn’t want to interrupt the Zone Pidge gets into.  She’ll work slower just to spite him if he hangs around looking over her shoulders. 

In the Blue Room, Hunk and Lance are both on Hunk’s bed, crammed together to watch terrible quality streams of Whose Line is it Anyway.  Keith is sitting on Lance’s bed, nearby but not quite engaged, toying with some little trinket from Lance’s stash of fidgets.  The screen is angled toward him, but he isn’t really watching.  He looks vaguely stressed, but he offers a small smile when Shiro bumps his shoulder with his hand.

“Everybody having a good night?” he asks.

“Oh my god, Shiro,” Lance wheezes, smacking the space on Hunk’s bed next to him.  “You need to watch this—”

…He’s just sat down when he hears Pidge from the other room.  “SHI-RO!” she calls, irritated.  “GET OVER HERE!”

“Sorry, coming!” Shiro calls back, leaving the boys with a piqued flick of his white bangs—so impatient!  You’d think _he_ was the one who forced him out of the room to finish a project. 

Now that he actually has her attention, he wastes no time getting to the point.  “What do you think about Voltron?”

“The show?” she asks, suspiciously.

Shiro snorts.  “No.  I meant… the House.  Obviously, I meant the House.”  He knows how she feels about the show—she’s not exactly quiet about her opinions, especially when Lance is involved.  She has written essays critiquing every season of Voltron, tearing them to pieces, just to shove in Lance’s face when he gets too up in arms about his cartoons.  He scuffs the arm of the couch with a mechanical finger.  “Do you think Keith is settling in all right?”

“Are you worried about him?”

Shiro shrugs, hastily folding up his arms over his chest, back to trying to act casual.  His worry about Keith has nothing to do with why he’s asking this particular question, nope.  Not at all.

“He wants to be here.  Okay?  If he didn’t, he would have filled out the forms for emancipation and sent them in.”  Pidge has an edge to her voice that he isn’t expecting.  She drags a finger down the edge of her laptop’s casing, avoiding eye contact.

“…filled them out?” Shiro says quietly.  “As in, he has them printed out somewhere?”

“Yeah.”  She fidgets a little.  “Look, Shiro… don’t get mad, but when he first came me and him talked about it.  He asked me if I could print them out so he could look at them.  I didn’t know he was still thinking about it.”

“…Is he?”

“Oh, fuck.  Look, I don’t know.  Maybe he isn’t!”  She throws her hands up.  “Maybe he’s not actually as worried about the Little Alien as he seems to be!  I can’t read his mind!  All I know is that he needs to get it through his head that we’re here now and he needs to stop _worrying_ about it.”

Shiro wraps her in a side hug, pulling her scruffy head against his chest.  These are all things that he and Lance and Hunk had to nail into her head, once upon a time.  It’s not easy, coming from homes and placements that all turned ephemeral, slipping out of their hands the moment they stopped holding tight enough… or maybe despite holding tight enough.  But Shiro has always been here for the long-haul—he takes older kids, difficult cases, long-term placements.  Unless a child shows that they’re unhappy here, or is a danger to the others, they stay.  Pidge had to learn that.  She’s still learning.  And Keith… Keith will follow, someday.

Probably.

Shiro goes to bed stressed, knowing that Keith is stressed.  And Pidge, and Allura… Hunk is always anxious, so that’s a given.  The only one who seems okay on a day to day basis is Lance, and Shiro is always worried that it’s just because he hides things until he can’t hide them anymore. 

It’s a ripple.  The first one in a few weeks.  A ripple from an epicenter that has yet to show its true face.

If only Shiro knew what was coming.  If only he could prepare.  But he hasn't a clue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I HAD TO CONVINCE MYSELF TO NOT GO BACK AND SWITCH SENDAK AND LOTOR'S NAMES  
> It would be better if I did character wise, but I can't... I can't do it again...  
> Also don't worry, updates are coming. I'm just slow and not-quite-steady. Cheers!


	15. Week Fourteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shiro plans some interior decoration, Pidge gets some news, and Keith is initiated into the cult of the coco.

Shiro wakes with a frown.  Gets up with a frown.  Puts his prosthesis on with a frown—except not the normal frown he wears when he has to wriggle into the harness, it’s an INTENSE frown.  Today is a frowny kind of day.

A week later, and that diddly emancipation form is still bugging him.  Why did Keith not mention it?  He’s seen Keith struggle—he drives Keith to see a counselor every two weeks for heck’s sake—so he knows there’s something going on, generally speaking.  What he _didn’t_ know was that on a multiple-choice questionnaire with the options A) Baby, B) School, C) Family, D) Mental Health, and E) Other, Keith was still worried about E.  He’s actually frustrated with himself—how can it be that he’s taken by surprise every time Keith talks about his future in the House, and yet still somehow thinks, deep in a trench somewhere in his subconscious, that Keith would crack open his walls and talk to _him_ —the guy who has veto power to kick him out of the House—about something that really scares him?

And Shiro can’t just go barging in and ask what’s up with that, which is where most of his current ire resides.  That’s tactless—and also scary.  He’s not that kind of asshole.  He needs to make sure that Keith feels safe and accepted… which is why he devises a plan.  He’s going to get them through this.  He’s going to turn that frown upside—you know what?  He’s not gonna say it.  He’s gonna DO it, and then it’ll be DONE.  Less platitudes, more action.  He’s got half the day off and it’s going to be a _damn good four hours_.

It’s already making him feel better.  Look at that.

By the time he gets home, all the kids are up and at it.  Well, more or less.  Hunk is still scrubbing goop from his sleepy eyes as he scrambles some eggs on autopilot, and Allura is responsive but still in bed.  Lance, Pidge, and Keith are all at the table, competing for the last scraps of garlic toast from a few days ago.  It’s probably lunchtime for Lance and Keith, but Pidge has the look of someone who rolled out of bed and straight onto the kitchen table, lying flat on her back on a placemat.   Lance is not quite up there next to her—too little space for his flailing limbs.  One good shove and Keith dethrones him, claiming the toast as his own.

“You’re such a cheater,” Lance whines from where he’s now sprawled across three chairs.  “I needed that to survive the afternoon.  How am I supposed to get through six hours of coding on an empty stomach?”

“You ate three slices before I even got here,” Keith snorts.  “Also, you don’t code.  You pretend to be inanimate, so she can use you as a rubber duck.”

“True, true… but have you considered… that I’m going to _SNEAK ATTACK_ —?”

He had.  Lance flops again, landing heavily on his stomach as Keith holds the toast up and away.  Pidge snickers.  Hunk mumbles about playing fair.

A few short minutes later, when Keith says something about taking his eggs to go and finishing up some Bio work, Shiro makes a beeline after him.

“Hey, so… I wanted to run something by you,” he says, leaning through the doorframe as Keith settles on his bed, fork already in his mouth.  Shiro waves a finger around at the walls.  “I was thinking that it’s a little drab in here.  How do you feel about painting your room?"

Keith’s eyes go wide.  “Wait, really?” he asks.

Shiro nods.  He’s got the afternoon off—they could go look at some paint swatches, buy a gallon or two, get a start on it.  Make the space Keith’s, and Keith’s alone.  Settle him in.  “Paint fumes might not be good for the baby, but Hunk and Lance will do most of the work and you can sleep in the living room for a few days while it airs out.  What do you think?”

He knows that Keith understands the permanency he’s proposing by the way the kid suddenly looks like he wants to cry a little.  Shiro smiles.  He knows how that feels.  That feeling of finally slowing down, finally starting to call a place home… yeah.  They’ll paint the walls.  And Keith will go to school.  And then, somewhere down the line, Shiro will get the adoption papers all sorted out.

An hour or so later, they are sitting on the floor together, talking about color theory.  Keith is dead set on red for whatever reason.  He’s trying to explain it the way he sees it—a dusty red, like the color of red soil in the desert—when they get interrupted by Lance, who tells them that Pidge is about to go ballistic.

Shiro’s first thought is, ‘ _Oh, FUCK no.  Not today_.’

His second is, ‘ _At least Keith will get to see firsthand how much effort I put in to keep these kids safe and happy_.’

His third is, ‘ _What the fuck, why is that a priority_?’ which he marks down to reexamine later, seeing as right now he’s dissolving into blind panic because what was once a ripple is now a tsunami, and it’s not coming from the direction he was sandbagging.  He shoves his way past Lance, who stands frozen in Keith’s doorway.  Past Allura, scrambling to grab Pidge’s laptop and hide it.  Past Hunk, cowering in the kitchen, ready to protect the food with his own body… and all the way to Pidge, alone in the living room, next to whom he arrives just in time to loop an arm around her middle before she hurls one of the slippers from next to the couch at a nearby lamp.

If it were anybody else, Shiro would have sent Lance over to stall while he prepped some hot chocolate and sat the kids down.  It works with most of them—see Keith’s Window Stunt, for example.  Even Allura will sit quietly with her mug, reeling in her outbursts for a few minutes so that Shiro can make at least an attempt to keep the peace.  After everything, Allura is still more of a diplomat than a warrior.  Pidge, on the other hand…

She misses the lamp—barely—but the crash of the footwear against the blinds on the window rings like a pair of symbols crashing together. 

“Pidge, hold on.  _We need to talk about this_.”

“Shiro lemme GO—”  Pidge struggles in his arms, her words devolving into a shriek.  She’s small, and pasty, and still somehow her fingernails feel like the talons of a rabid creature, raking down his exposed left arm.  It shouldn’t surprise him at this point—there’s only one reason Pidge fights, only one thing that’s life or death to her, one thing that she would rip through heaven and earth alike to find.  The shock ring connects with his prosthetic, sending a wailing buzz of electricity across the sensors and up into where they rest against his skin.  He grabs her wrist with his other hand, pinning it against her chest.

“Pidge, you don’t know if it’s them,” Shiro says, trying to speak over the wicked little voice he knows is blaring in her head as she writhes in his grip.  Keith arrives in his field of view, looking overwhelmed and confused about how Shiro could possibly know what she’s freaking out about with negative two seconds of warning.  The thing is… it’s the same every time.  One thing, one person.

“IT’S THEM, IT’S THEM AND YOU WON’T LET ME GO SEE THEM, YOU’RE A MONSTER—”

The fresh screaming brings Allura to the room, and officially the whole house is present.  Hunk hovers in the kitchen doorway, half-hidden, watching with huge, fearful eyes for more projectiles.  Lance stands in front of Keith, one arm thrown out as if he’ll protect him from Pidge’s wet-eyed, gut instinct fury.  Keith’s eyes narrow as he listens, the pieces obviously falling into place as the gears in his head turn.  He’ll have it figured out soon enough, Shiro knows.  If it’ll do any good is anybody’s guess. 

Pidge keeps her hurt close to her chest, where it manifests as obsession and a ferocious wrath that only comes out when something… someone… gets between her and Matthew Holt.

She’s still Pidge, though, even when she’s raging and flushed red.  She still responds to Shiro using his oddly numbed right arm to stroke her hair, pulling her body down onto his lap as he settles on the floor.  She still fights, but not the way that animals do.  She pulls back her claws, just slightly.  “You’ll let me leave,” she spits, but even as she tries to hone an edge of irritation, her voice wavers and betrays her.  She pushes at the hand around her wrist, but softly now.  “You’ll let me go.  You don’t want to hurt me, you’ll let me go to him.  Shiro.  Shiro, _please_ —"

“You can’t just _leave_.”

Shiro freezes.  Was that… was that Keith?  The way Lance steps to the side, staring open-mouthed back at the shorter boy like he had no idea that was coming, says yes.  To be fair, no one looks like they expected that.  Not even Allura.  Shiro and Pidge sit facing the kitchen, everyone in view.  No one else is moving.  Allura’s jaw is locked, her mouth a line.  Hunk has both hands pressed over his mouth like he’s afraid of making a sound, eyes flicking back and forth.  Pidge keeps twisting for a few more seconds, but it’s halfhearted and her eyes are huge in her face.

“I can do whatever I want—” she starts, a touch of uncertainty creeping in.

The look on Keith’s face, arms crossed over his belly, silences the entire room. 

“You’re a hypocrite,” Keith snarls.  His lips twitch as his fingernails, short and neat, turn white under the pressure he’s exerting on the grip he has on his biceps.

“Keith, they’re my _family_ —” she tries.

She doesn’t get far.  “Everyone in the universe has a family, Pidge!  You’re supposed to be _mine_.  What, were you lying when you told me I should stay?  That you cared about me?”

And dear lord, Shiro has seen Keith upset but he’s never seen _this_ —face twisted into a bare-toothed snarl, sharp lines carved into his brow and jaw by muscles tight enough to pop.  There’s a flush going right down his neck.  The muscles in his forearms jump. 

In short, he looks furious.  The kind of fury that can only be honed by years and years of abandonment and fear.

“Keith,” he says, softly.  “That isn’t how this works.”

Neither of them has ears for him.  Shiro feels Pidge take a huge breath.  “You don’t need me,” she says, talking to Keith, pleading with him.  “You’ve got all these people here—you don’t need me.”

God, the look on his face.  Pidge, normally the queen of avoiding eye contact with anyone she’s upset, must have caught it, too, because she starts to talk at warp speed.

“Listen, you’ve got both Hunk and Lance, they’ll be with you when school starts, and we all know you’re Shiro’s favorite so he’s got your back no matter what happens, and even Allura—”

“Don’t use me to justify this,” Allura snaps suddenly.  “We _all know_ you’ve wanted to leave since the moment you came, so don’t bother making excuses.  You’re not here for Voltron.  And yeah!  We get it!  Family!  It’s just that some of us here _don’t have the luxury of leaving and finding someone else_.”

And there it is.  The root of all their problems.  Voltron only exists because of aching absence.  If not for the way he had to leave his parents as a kid, Shiro wouldn’t have been taken in by Coran.  He would never have met Alfor, and he most certainly wouldn’t have taken in Allura in turn, let alone the rest of them.  Shiro lets the implications of that settle with the dust.  House Voltron isn’t just a house—for some of these kids, it’s their last hope at a stable life, at having a family and _keeping it_ after blood was spilt. 

And with that, Shiro takes a deep breath.  He can’t let them tear each other apart.  Not like this.  “Pidge,” he says.  “If it really is your brother, you know they’ll call.  It doesn’t do you any good to be hacking into random people’s medical records hoping they’re your family.  Right now he’s just a John Doe.  You should stay here until you know for sure, one way or the other.”  He’s guessing about most of the situation, but this has happened before, and he knows by the way she tenses that he’s on the mark.  It's a game of clue with the same mystery every time.  Every single time.  John Doe, in the hospital, with Matt's build.

“But—”

“Would you rather get taken out of the house?” Keith snaps, cowing her into silence.  “Break into the hospital, get arrested, and get fucking shuffled away again?  If so, then go ahead!  You’re allowed to do whatever you want.”

“That’s _not what this is_ ,” she says, but she’s losing steam.  A tear carves a track down one cheek.  Shiro sucks in a breath and it hurts, feels raw in his lungs.  He holds her tighter, rocking her, waiting for her to give in and hold him back.

“Pidgey…”  That’s Lance.  Shiro looks over, watches with infinite fondness as he speaks up for the first time since the fight started, his voice soft.  “Pidgey, we need you.  That’s all they’re saying.  We need you, and we can’t have you if you get yourself in trouble.”

She wilts, and Keith turns away before Shiro can catch the expression on his face.  His door is exceptionally loud when it slams.

 

* * *

 

 

The crying lasts for hours.

Shiro is lying in bed, nowhere near sleep, when Keith sticks his head in the door.  It’s one AM, but sleep is for people who aren’t being torn into little tiny pieces by the echoes of a child crying for her brother.  She calmed down a little bit ago, but his ears still ring.  “Hey, so, um… could you help me?” Keith asks, short fingernails tapping against the door frame.  Shiro heaves himself up, letting his blankets fall away.  He’s not particularly in a speaking mood, so he just nods tiredly and guides Keith back into the hallway with a hand on his shoulder, letting himself follow when Keith starts marching toward the kitchen.

They pass Pidge, staring out the front window like she’ll see something important out there despite there being nothing but the truck and the old cottonwood tree and maybe, if you squint the right way, some old, dusty stars.  She’s rigid in her seat, her knees up against her chest and her back ramrod straight.  Her laptop lies closed at her hip.  It evokes an image of a sprung trap—thick, iron teeth nestled so tightly together that you forget the violence with which they snapped closed.

Shiro resists the urge to grab Keith, grab her, and drag them both into his bed.  Not tonight.  Tonight they need a little distance.

Taking care with the torn edges of his fingers where Pidge held on tight enough to draw blood, Shiro slowly starts to teach Keith the ritual.  Two mugs from the cabinet.  Both, three-quarters full of milk or milk substitute.  Minute and a half in the microwave.  Check heat.  Another minute.  Three tablespoons of mix.  Stir.  Cinnamon and a handful of baby marshmallows on top, as per preference.  Two mugs of Hunk-approved hot chocolate, voila.

Shiro watches Keith as Keith watches the microwave.  He’s not sure if it’s because of sun exposure or the pregnancy or even if he’s just never been able to get close enough to see them, but he’s just now noticing freckles sprinkled across Keith’s face and down the sides of his neck.

The House is quiet.  It feels like the three of them are utterly, utterly alone.

Despite feeling fatigue settling into his bones, Shiro stays to watch Keith awkwardly stand beside the couch, offering the drink.  It takes Pidge an eternity to peel her eyes from whatever distant thing she’s so focused on, but when she realizes who is offering the drink, her face crumples a little into something resembling guilt.  Keith perches beside her—just far enough away to give her space, nursing his own mug.  It rests on the soft curve of his belly as he slouches against the arm of the couch.

“Thank you,” she says, after a long moment.  He shrugs, stabs a marshmallow with his spoon.

Shiro silently pads to her side, curling his hand around her nape to pull her close for just a second.  He plants a soft kiss against the crown of her fluffy head.  Then he leaves them be, content in the knowledge that even after today, they still have each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I'm... I'm emotional, I'll admit it. D:


	16. Week Fifteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keith's room finally gets painted, Shiro herds some ducks, and the House has a movie marathon.

It was a false alarm.  It always is.  Matthew Holt, forever the enigma, stubbornly remains nothing more than flatulence in the wind, as Lance insists on saying.  There have been a few similar fake-outs during the time that Pidge has been in the House, but she gets worked up without fail every time there’s even a whiff of her brother.  This is the first time around that she didn’t break anything.  It's improvement.  And yet, Shiro still somehow feels _awful_ about it.  About everything, really.

He wanders without purpose down the hall, essentially doing nothing except moving to move.  Earlier he’d tried to sit still and read a bit more of the diary, but his prosthesis is moving slowly and focusing is hard.  Vague anxiety dogs his heels as he goes: from his bedroom, down the hall past Allura, Pidge, Lance, and Keith all hidden behind closed doors, to the living room where Hunk is watching reruns of Chopped while he plans his life. 

Shiro wishes he’d had that kind of planning/follow-through when he was a kid.  His only plan had been to get into the military and ride it out until he could get a college degree in anything education-related.  Hunk, meanwhile, has his life planned out to the month—from the SAT in September to college apps for mechanical engineering schools next semester to interning at a high-end restaurant in his third year of college… all the way up to getting into one of the televised cooking competitions (probably Chopped, as the whole family would willingly watch if he got on) post-graduation and making his way out with nation-wide recognition and at least second place, after which the money to go abroad and learn Things from Experts would fall into his capable hands.  It doesn’t even sound farfetched—at least, not for Hunk.  The only thing he hasn’t taken into consideration is the fact that Bela, the granddaughter of Ms. Shay at the bakery down the street, looks at him with heart eyes and seems inclined to follow him to his destiny.  Those two dance around each other in such a sweet, tender way whenever they talk—Bela is wholeheartedly ready to leave the safety of her family’s business, but only if Hunk will take her hand and show her the way.  It’s painfully cute.

Then Shiro paces away from Hunk, past the kitchen, down the hall of closed doors, and all the way to his own bedroom.  It’s informally known as the Black Room because of all the photography junk from the last owner that they had to move out when House Voltron first became theirs.  Well, him and Allura, that is.  It was back when he was just putting through the last of the paperwork to bring her into his official custody.  After the crash, but before House Voltron took on the name _House Voltron_.  When he and Coran were trying to stay strong for Allura so that her life wouldn’t nosedive directly into the concrete, even as Shiro himself struggled to rebuild after losing an arm and a brother.

And… back again.  Bedroom, hall, kitchen… there he pauses to let Lance meander past, looking like he’s never been fully awake in his entire life.  This is clearly not the case, seeing as just a few weeks ago he was only sleeping four hours a night if he slept at all and spent the rest of his time talking as fast as humanly possible, but it seems his manic episode is coming to a close.  The poor kid is a sleep-deprived husk, deep shadows etched under his eyes that he takes every opportunity to complain about.

Shiro flexes his prosthesis after a half-hearted wave that he’s not sure Lance catches.  When the crash hits, it hits hard, and this time it’s hit the entire House.  School starts next week, and it’s going to be a struggle.  Which is fine; it happens.  The plan to paint Keith’s room still exists, so the fog can’t hang out forever.  Shiro just has to get his ducks in a row.  Preferably in time to keep everyone else afloat.

He squeezes his fingers into a fist, watching the way the last two joints on his little finger twitch.  That’s a new development, and probably the main source of his anxiety right now.  It’s hard to do things when the hand you rely on to do them is out of commission—it’s a specific kind of uselessness that makes the panic ride high and insistent in his chest.  Waiting until his next appointment with his physiatrist to see if it needed to be sent off for repairs is no longer an option.  He sighs—there isn’t going to be any painting happening until he’s sure he’s not going to get electrocuted by his own hand.  Quack.

Well, time to get it over with.  He sticks his head into Keith’s room, and then proceeds to stand in the doorway for a moment twitching his fingers at Pidge so that she can track the motion.  The two kids are sitting side by side on the bed in a mess of torn-up notebooks covered with Pidge’s scrawl.  Keith is scrunched up in the far corner, arms crossed across his chest and cross-legged with his boots up on the bed.  They really need to have a talk about that.

“Uh… can I help you?” Keith asks uncertainly.

Pidge is already locking onto the problem.  She makes grabby hands, whining until Shiro settles on the floor beside her to give her access to the limb.  Warranty, what warranty, amirite?  “Just here for a tune-up,” he says, watching as she pries off a panel.  “Ready to get painting in a bit?  You’re not helping her plan her first heist of the school year, are you?”

Pidge coughs pointedly.  “Of course not," she says.  She pauses before she admits, “The school district just got a new cybersecurity guy and he left some MAJOR holes in the system.  What’s the point if it’s that easy?”

Shiro hums and pretends like this isn’t the best news he’s gotten in a while.  They’ve had cops come to the house more than once because of Pidge’s shenanigans.  She has a knack for leaving behind just enough evidence that everyone knows it’s her but not quite enough to officially pin it down.  He’s got no idea why the school hasn’t booted her out.  “What is all this, then?” he asks, curiosity now officially piqued.  He picks up a sheet of paper in his left hand and squints at it.  It's like deciphering old English.

With a shrug, Keith tilts his head back against the wall, gazing at the other side of the room.  Pidge is now too focused on the arm to give an actual answer, picking apart the wires as she mutters to herself.  It’s Keith who finally says, “She’s trying to figure out Matt’s spending habits from his old Steam account.”

“Yeah, by using your dad’s Radioshack orders as a test run for my algorithm,” Pidge snorts.  “This is after I tried and failed to figure out Coran’s Amazon account, by the way.  The man is absurdism at its finest and I honestly can’t understand why he keeps buying meat thermometers.”

That has Shiro laughing out loud.  It feels good.  It feels even better to tell them the story about the time Alfor tried to win the right to have a girl over by challenging Coran to a tennis match.  Coran all but bulldozed him.  He moped for weeks.

Soon enough, though, talk about family transitions into talk about growing up, and talk about growing up transitions into… well, transitioning.

“Yeah, my mom wasn’t ‘into’ gender fuckery,” Pidge grunts, slipping a pair of tweezers out of a pocket made of duct tape on the lid of her laptop.  Like Hunk, she always has her tools on hand.  She’s almost done, she keeps saying, before interrupting herself to tweak one last thing.  She hums a little.  “But I'm taking blockers now, so she can suck it.”

“Hormone blockers?  Why aren’t you on estrogen?” Keith asks curiously.  He’s focused more on Pidge’s nimble fingers than her face, watching closely as she picks apart some of the delicate innards of the prosthetic limb.  Shiro has been reduced to an extra hand to hold tools now that his story time is over.  He accepts his fate.  Pidge passes over a tiny screwdriver and shrugs, hunching over her work. 

“I just… want to make sure that I’m not _too_ different, you know?” she mumbles.  “I wasn’t out to Mattie, so when he shows up, I want him to still… recognize me.”

Keith nods along, painfully understanding.  Says something nonchalant about actually going on testosterone after the Little Alien comes and goes.  A quip about his dad, who never did pick up on the fact that he was leaning more toward boy than the girl they always made him be.  “Maybe he’ll finally get the hint,” he says, and peters off.

There’s another silence, but this time… this time Pidge only fiddles with the prosthesis’s open panel for a moment before she determinedly twists a wire into place, slaps the panel back on, and allows Shiro to take his hand back.  “Done,” she says, and then, in one quick breath, blurts, “Maybe I _should_ start hormones, you know?  Mattie can handle his little sibling growing a pair of boobs, right?  Especially after disappearing for years without leaving a note or anything— _I’m pretty sure nothing I can do to my own body is as asshole a move as that_.”

Shiro tests his arm out by wrapping it around her thin shoulders and drawing her into a side-hug that tucks her right up under his chin.  “You still have time,” he reminds her.  She’s young.  The blockers will last as long as she needs them. 

She knows that already—she nods, then headbutts him directly in the Adam’s apple in order to sit up straight.  “You going to do good on your promise to paint or what?” she challenges.  In the time it takes Shiro to climb to his feet, she’s already started drawing up samples of cheery reds on her laptop and is emailing them one after the other to Shiro’s phone.

Shiro groans and stretches amidst the sound of half a dozen emails notifications chiming.  Keith perks right up, on his feet and ready to go in seconds—suddenly the fact that he’s already wearing his boots makes so much sense.  As far as ducks go, Shiro thinks they have enough to get this show on the road.

 

* * *

 

 

Wishful thinking.  Shiro sighs, leaning away from Allura in the passenger seat of the minivan like that will help shield him from the sound of the car horn pouring out onto the driveway.  Fifteen minutes of arguing about who should come with to get paint and they’ve barely made it out the door.  Despite her adamance that Project Rose finally be set in motion, Pidge was hardly equipped to actually come and help, let alone Lance, who was asleep and drooling on the living room carpet.  The face Pidge made when Shiro suggested they come along—it will haunt Shiro till the day he dies.  And _god forbid_ they ask Hunk to leave his Chopped reruns.

“Allura, give it _up_ ,” Keith groans from the backseat, barely loud enough to be heard over the horn.  “If Lance hasn’t come out by now then he’s obviously not going to.  Let’s _go_ already.”

“Well, now I’m waiting for you to buckle your seatbelt,” Allura says, casually, as if she’s not about to burst their eardrums before they even make it out of the driveway.  Shiro gives in, covers his ears, and fully regrets teaching her how to drive.  Maybe if she never sat behind the wheel in the first place she wouldn’t have learned to lay on the horn to get her way.  Keith snaps his seatbelt in place as fast as he can.  The satisfied smirk Allura has as she backs out makes Shiro want to cry.

As a modus operandi, it’s a good one.  The threat of extreme damage to the inner ear is always effective.  If only she didn’t insist on doing it to Shiro, too.  He doesn't deserve this.

At the store, the three of them stand in front of the sample rack for some indeterminate amount of time before Keith selects one of the little cards, holding it up.  He passes it to Shiro, who looks at it critically.  Before he can yay or nay it, however, Keith hands him another one.  And another, and then, right on the tail of that, asks, “How come Pidge sleeps in the living room?  Shouldn’t she be in my room?”

Damn if he’s not a perceptive little shit.  Should or shouldn’t… those words don’t mean much when it comes to Pidge.  Just like Keith, just like Allura, Pidge is a force of nature that bends the world around her.  Allura rolls her eyes, barely looking up from her phone.  “Nah,” she says.  She seems to be in a particularly good mood today and Shiro can’t figure out why.  Maybe it was the car horn.  “Your room used to be Hunk’s.  Then he figured out that Lance gets nightmares sometimes.”

“Pidge just… never got comfortable, I think,” Shiro admits sheepishly, because what else can he say?  They had her sleeping in Allura’s room for a while because her risk of flight was a bit high, but once they convinced her to give the place a chance she moved to the couch and it worked for her.  Shiro tries not to question it.  Maybe it has something to do with having everything down the hall, all the bedroom doors and the kitchen, within neck-craning distance.  Who knows.  She’s working on her anxiety with her counselor—maybe someday she’ll feel like the House is steady enough for her to sleep in a room with a closed door and not get panicky that someone will disappear.

Keith hums.  He picks up another sample.  Holds it out to Shiro… then pulls back and grabs all of the cards Shiro has, shoving them back on the shelf.  “I want this one,” he says, plucking one in particular from the holder and thrusting it out.  He doesn’t make eye contact, but something about his posture eases a little when Shiro takes it to read the label.

“This is… good?” Shiro tries.  It sure is red.  It does look a little like the red sand Keith was trying to describe way back when, but then again, so do many things to Shiro’s untrained eyes.  He knows nothing about color theory, and Keith seems to realize this when he turns the sample upside down like that will clear things up.  Keith pouts and snatches it back, pushing it at Allura who, unsurprisingly, has a very articulated opinion about This Shade and That Room, which she delivers in a bored monotone.  That seems good enough for Keith.  Which is great, because Shiro honestly does not know why he’s even here, at this point. 

Until they get to the cash register, that is.  Father?  Bah.  He’s a glorified Roomba/ATM for these kids.

His frowny mood doesn’t last long.  It can’t, not in the face of the kind of physical labor that strains muscles just so.  It’s one of those things that he secretly loves—muscle strain, cinnamon almonds, ginger peach tea, using his Sargent Iverson Voice to scare classrooms full of rowdy kids… small pleasures.  Hunk guides the painting process with ease, barking orders like a head chef.  If Shiro were to guess, he’d say that Hell’s Kitchen reruns came on after Chopped. 

There’s a fair bit of screwing around, but even Lance doesn’t want to drag out the process for longer than it has to go, so the four of them—Shiro, Lance, Hunk, and Pidge—have the entire room covered and airing out by seven PM.  Keith pokes his nose in a couple of times, usually when Lance curses too loud, and the smile he has as they shoo him away is worth the world.

They end the evening with a movie marathon.  It’s Lance’s choice because Shiro feels bad about the way that Hunk had to pinch his sides to wake him up.  In a completely predictable move, Lance picks two animated kid’s movies—Monsters Inc., and The Incredibles.  He then sits in Hunk’s lap with his eyes barely open, sucking on the dregs of a massive coffee drink that they picked up for him on the way back to the House, too tired to do anything about the fact that he’s completely covered in red fingerprints. 

It’s good, having everyone together.  Even Lance shushing them when they laugh too loud because, “I want to hear the movie, you bologna slices!” can’t dampen the sweet way the four of them curl up nearly in a pile on the couch.  Including Keith, who, despite sticking close to the edge, is relaxed enough to put his head on Pidge’s shoulder. 

Shiro makes eye contact with Allura from the other side of the room, and she seems just a little softer than usual in the light of the television.

“I’m serious, shut the fuck up,” Lance says as Keith snickers into his hand after Hunk makes an impressive pun.  When Keith continues to laugh, Lance wriggles far enough over to poke him with his straw, whining, “I’ve done hard labor today and I demand respeeect.”

Pidge rolls her eyes with a “Sure, Jan.”  Keith steals the straw and rolls it into a little coil, which he balances on Lance’s forehead.  They bicker, but not too seriously.  Lance cries more than once as the plotlines progress, setting off Hunk, who sets off Pidge even as she tries to keep her composure by pointing out continuity errors.  By the time everyone is dragging themselves to bed (aside from Lance who is, in fact, being dragged by Hunk) and Keith is making a blanket nest with Pidge on the couch, Shiro feels more content than he has in a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Sorry for the delay, lizards. I'm definitely still working on this, just not in a linear way. Some good news! I'm adding illustrations, so make sure to go back and check out the first few chapters if you haven't seen them yet! I'm also working on *gasp* a sequel?? This fic is nearing the halfway point, and after that we'll see how far the next arc will go. Maybe it will be of a similar length--maybe a little longer. Comments are always appreciated! If you want to ask questions about the future of this verse come to the-ghost-of-keith-kogane.tumblr.com :O


	17. Month Four: Coran Coran the Uncanny Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The diary is returned, everyone gets caffeinated, and Shiro has a jump-scare.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just as an aside because I'm seeing discussion on tumblr: in this verse, Coran was born in New Zealand but moved to Australia as a young lad. He joined the military there and then bounced around Europe for a hot minute before finally settling in the states.

There’s a specific phenomenon that Shiro has been trying to make sense of for years now, and that is how Coran seems to materialize, shift everything around just so, satisfy some obscure need he has, and disappear back into the ether again without so much as a nod toward his true intentions.  It’s called the Coran Phenomenon, and it has been documented by many a WordPress user.

Let there be no mistake—there are always ‘true intentions’ when Coran is involved.  He’s slippery, but Shiro has known him for upwards of twenty years.  Shiro Knows.  He just can’t… figure out what the heck the man is doing right now?

He’s definitely organizing the kids.  At first, it just seemed like he was moving them unintentionally, but Shiro is starting to see the pattern.  He still doesn’t know why, though, so he watches suspiciously from his position on the couch, waiting.  Coran’s game will become clear if he watches closely enough.  Probably.  Maybe.  Hopefully?

They’re lined up by complexion—Pidge’s pasty face and not-quite-red hair, Keith’s inky locks over pale skin, Lance’s easy tan and sprinkled freckles, Hunk’s warm brown cheeks framed by deep brown hair, and finally Allura’s carefully made-up umber and her cascading, bleached-blonde curls.  It’s the only pattern Shiro can see—they’re like a skin-tone palette.

“Why—” Shiro starts.

Coran cuts him off.  “No questions!  Hands in, everybody!”

That’s when it clicks.  Shiro can’t help but groan.  “God, is this for another pamphlet?  What have I told you about using the kids for that?”

“Oh, you’re bitter that you’re too old to do it anymore!  Kids, Shiro here used to have his face on every child services pamphlet this side of the Hudson—was a proper cutie when he was little.  Everyone wanted to adopt him.  In fact, I was challenged to a duel several times when he first came into my care.  Such demand for that sweet smile and those chubby cheeks—!”

“Stop making it sound like you were selling me for cash,” Shiro says, but he’s smiling and it’s only a little bit painful.

Coran guffaws, loud and boisterous.  “What a concept!  Never _could_ use him in the videos; you always did have quite the mouth on you, Shiro.  Sense of humor straight out of—"

“Oh my god, just get it over with,” Shiro moans.  There’s been a lot of moaning and groaning since he discovered Coran in the house this morning—Coran seems to be in one of those _moods_ where he absolutely delights in making Shiro regret literally every second he’s spent on Earth, which happens to the vast majority of his seconds.

Coran produces a disposable camera and snaps a good dozen or so pictures from various angles, and when he pulls back with a satisfied nod, Lance—a little too enthusiastic to be genuine, Shiro thinks—screams, “TEAM VOLTRON, ON THREE!  ONE, TWO, _THREE_!”

“ _TEAM VOLTRON_!”

“Team Vol—?” Keith asks, left behind, as everyone raises their hands with the shout.

“It’s a rallying call, Keith,” Lance explains.  Keith continues to look confused, so he waves impatiently, gesturing Keith toward the door.  “We’ll work on it later, Loser.  Right now it’s time for Starbucks!”

Shiro pinches the bridge of his nose.  “Coran… please tell me you didn’t bribe them with Starbucks.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Number One!” Coran says with his normal cheer.  “It’s simply a treat for making it through the first days of a new school year!”

“God, you are such a liar—you’re teaching the kids bad habits.  Have some shame.”

“Habit?” Pidge snorts, at the same time as Allura scoffs, “Bad?” and then everyone is piling out the door.

What Shiro wouldn’t do to NOT have five overcaffeinated kids in the house.  It spells disaster literally every time, and Coran knows this.  In fact, now that he thinks about it, he’s pretty sure Coran planned it so that he can administer the treats and abscond directly after, which is just typical.  Keith isn’t even supposed to _have_ caffeine.  At least coffee doesn’t hyperactivate Lance, thank god—he just gets hyped by the way everyone else is hyper.  ADHD is weird.

There’s a tug at his right arm—he looks up to find Keith there, three fingers hooked around his palm.  “Please tell me you’re driving, I’m not in the mood for Allura-hysteria,” he says.  Shiro instinctively closes his fingers for one precious second, clasping Keith’s hand close, resisting the urge to gasp.  For a moment it's just the two of them, hands clasped, easy and sweet.  Then Keith is heaving him up to his feet, no bat of his eye, like this is normal.  Like this isn’t the first time Shiro has seen him relaxed enough to take someone’s hand without having to think about it and psych himself up first. 

Everything that was just on Shiro’s mind immediately ceases to exist, instead replaced by a movie-reel flashback to Keith’s first day here—back when he wouldn’t even acknowledge Shiro beyond side-stares and giving him a good three-foot berth, refusing to even come within touching distance.

The difference is striking.  Keith is comfortable here.  He’s comfortable, and Shiro takes a quick moment out of his life to praise god.  He's so proud of the kid?  Ah.  He wants to live in this place of pride forever.

Then the moment ends, and he gives Keith’s shoulder a hearty pat as they head out to the minivan.  He can try and savor this all he wants, but it isn’t going to last for too long.  It can't.  Like a cloud on the horizon, there is an impending conversation coming toward them.  It was delayed by Coran’s arrival, but the delay is only temporary.  Before the day is over, this conversation will come to pass.  Because he did it!  He finally did it!  Shiro _finally_ finished reading the diary!  He did it while he was waiting to pick the kids up from school on Friday!

It’s been nine weeks since the calm day at the end of June when he was handed the diary.  It’s been six weeks since The Great Lance and Keith Movie Theater Make-up, and the night that Hunk used the word ‘heavy’ to describe the entry he read.  It’s been four weeks since Shiro crossed over from Keith’s mom’s handwriting to the script he’s come to know as Keith’s father.  And now…

Heavy, he’s found, isn’t the word for it.  If there is a word… he’s not sure he wants to know it.  All he knows is that he no longer has the right to keep it to himself.

 

* * *

 

 

Two _thrilling_ car rides, seven frilly drinks, a caffeine crash, and one _expected moment of betrayal, thanks Coran_ later, Shiro is back on the couch nursing a substantial headache.  In the aftermath of the trip, Starbucks cups and other detritus litter the carpet.  The kids sprawl across the living room floor amidst said detritus.  Lance goaded Keith into playing Mario Kart the moment they got home, grinning cheekily when Shiro warned him not to play for six hours straight and give them both eye strain.  Despite that, they’re still going strong.  Allura, an espresso and half a frappe tucked away, spent an hour trying to teach the mice to hold Hunk’s screwdrivers in their tiny mouths.  Now she and Hunk are attempting to make a mini mobile shower for the mice, cannibalizing an old food processor (sans spinning blades of death).  The two of them currently possess a mouse each—a little brown one, who Shiro thinks is named Chulatt, is clinging to Allura’s braid while a lanky white one (Chuchule?  Chungus?  Mouse naming conventions are beyond Shiro, apparently) rides Hunk’s headband like the world’s smallest surfer.  The big, chubby mouse, who may or may not be named Platt, is curled up in Pidge’s hair as she crouches, cramped, in front of her laptop, typing away.  The last mouse is roaming free somewhere, unnamed and unnoticed.  A creature in the night.

“Hey, Hunk?” Shiro says, not opening his eyes all the way.  There is absolutely no way that the boys, sitting two feet from the television, aren’t feeling the eye strain.  Hunk hums.  “You remember that pie recipe?”

“Oh!” Hunk says, head whipping over instantly.  “You mean _The Recipe_?  The, uh, _cough cough,_ special occasions recipe?”

Shiro hums back.  Hunk isn’t exactly subtle, but with the right spin Shiro can play it off as another treat to start the school year with a bang like Coran did with the Starbucks trip.  He likes to think that after a couple of decades under the man’s wing he’s starting to get the hang of the Coran Phenomenon.

It backfires instantly when Lance shoots up in another overexaggerated move that launches his controller directly into Keith’s face, shouting, “VICTORY PIE TIME!  DISH, SHIRO, DISH!  _TELL US ALL THE SECRETS!_ ” 

Well, shit.  It’s a good thing that Keith is doubled over in pain, or else he would have seen the cowing look Shiro shoots at Lance and Hunk.  Lance doesn’t need the look, because he’s already lowering himself guiltily to the floor and moaning apologies to Keith’s whacked nose, but _Hunk_ certainly does.  _Of course_ Hunk told Lance about the pie deal.  And if Lance knows, the likelihood that everyone knows skyrockets.  Once Hunk has a secret it’s not a secret anymore.  Not that this was an especially secretive thing, necessarily, but…

“Uh… what’s going on?” Keith asks suspiciously as Hunk scoops Lance into his beefy arms and carries him to the kitchen, still moaning.  Keith gingerly checks his nose for blood, both controllers abandoned in his lap, but even with one hand covering his face, his sharp senses have caught the change in the air.

“Ah,” Shiro says, focusing his eyes properly for the first time all afternoon.  “Well.  I was hoping to catch you alone, but I think everyone knows already so privacy is a moot point.”

“Knows what?” Keith demands, turning a glare on Allura and whichever mouse is on Allura’s head.

“That Shiro finished reading the diary,” Pidge says, as Allura shrugs, confirming Shiro’s suspicions that Hunk blabbed about their conversation to everyone but Keith the first moment he could.  _Typical_.

Keith suddenly seems smaller on the floor, hunching a little around his belly.  At twenty-one weeks he still has room to hunch, but not far enough to wrap his arms around his knees and curl up.  “Oh,” he says.  For a single syllable that’s barely a word in its own right, it packs a punch.  Shiro feels his heart rate start to pick up.

Deep breath in.  Deep breath out.  He sits up straight to ask the girls to clear out for a bit because this is going to be— _oh god he found the last mouse, it was sitting in the crook of his prosthesis the entire time, what the EVERLIVING FU—_

 

* * *

 

 

He’s never going to live down that screech.  Never.  He’s fairly certain that Pidge’s laptop caught the audio, judging by the way she smiled sweetly at him as Allura packed the mice away to prevent further jump-scares.  The good news is that it loosened Keith up quite a bit, to the point that now, three hours and one pie later, he’s still sporadically breaking out into fits of giggles.  The bad news is that Shiro can no longer put off the discussion—not with the way Hunk is throwing him meaningful glances while pushing over two mugs of hot chocolate like the exact definition of conspicuous. 

They take their drinks down the hall.  In Keith’s room—the Red Room, now—the last of the mirth seems to wither away. 

“So… was it… um…”  Keith’s eyes flick to him and away helplessly as he twists the hem of an inherited Offspring shirt between his fists.  His mug has been abandoned on the windowsill while Shiro leisurely blows the steam off his own.  The kid looks like he has a thousand questions he wants to ask but doesn’t know how to get them off his tongue.  Shiro might or might not have answers to those thousand unasked questions, but as of right now it seems like he's going to have to steer this conversation a little to get it started at all.

He takes a deep breath, double checks himself for stray mice _just in case_ , and pulls the diary from an overly-large pocket in his ratty cargo pants.  When he opens his mouth, Keith seems to relax and go rigid all at once.  He keeps his voice as low and even as he can.  “Do you just want me to talk a little bit, maybe?  Or do you have some specific questions you want answers to?  Or, alternatively, we don’t have to talk at all.  You can take this back and I’ll keep quiet about it until you decide to read it for yourself.  I can just be an understanding ear waiting in the wings.”

Perched like he is on the very edge of the bed, Keith is almost in profile to Shiro’s careful gaze.  It’s an angle that draws attention to his changing figure—especially with the way he presses the shirt down over the bottom curve of his stomach.  He takes the diary in cautious hands.  “I… um.  How—how long does it go for?  How many months?”

Shiro shifts back thoughtfully, cradling his mug.  “It starts in April the year you were born, as far as I can tell.  The first entry or two might be from earlier before she knew she was pregnant, but I couldn’t read them.  The entries in English are weekly from April right up until your birthday.”

Keith sits still for a moment, working on adding that information to whatever cataloged knowledge he has of his mother.  Shiro nudges him toward his hot cocoa, letting him mull over his next question.  After a bit, he raises his head and asks, “What was she like?”

Shiro takes his time answering that one.  “Well… she was smart.  Incredibly smart.  She was teaching herself a whole new language and doing pretty good at it.  Reading about it reminded me of you, actually—how determined you get when you’re doing homework.”

A smile peeks at the edge of Keith’s cheek.

“And… phew, when she wanted to describe something she did it without mercy.  There are descriptions in there that made me want to wash my brain out with soap.”

At that Keith laughs outright, the long edges of his bangs fluttering against the bridge of his nose.

“But… I never got the sense that she was very happy.  She didn’t like living where you were living.  And she… got frustrated easily.  With herself, mostly.”

Keith’s mouth opens in an _oh_ , something quietly resigned like he knew it was coming.  “That’s not how my dad described it,” he says, picking at some crust at the lip of his mug.  “His favorite way of saying it was that she was ‘fucked up’.”

Shiro sighs.  “I don’t think she did anything wrong, or that there was something wrong with her, necessarily.  Obviously I didn’t know her in person, but from her writing, she just seemed like somebody in a hard situation, someone who was struggling.”

“I don’t suppose she… wrote anything the day I was born?”

Here goes nothing.  “Keith.  Do you know how your mom died?”

He sinks into himself a little, fingers still fiddling with anything and everything within reach so that he doesn’t have to look up.  “Um.  Complications?”

 _This is it._   It’s a story that Shiro knows like the back of his hand, because his own is so achingly similar.  “Not quite, buddy.  Your mom was an addict before you were conceived.  And she did a really good job of staying clean so that you would be born healthy and happy, but…”

He doesn’t quite say it, but he knows Keith understands.  She slipped up.  Screwed up.  Did something that cost her her life and Keith a mother.  He can’t bring himself to talk about Keith’s dad’s angry, loss-fueled words about the situation.  None of them were pleasant.  Not the ones deriding the premature baby for surviving when his wife did not, not the ones accusing the woman of doing it on purpose, not the ones where he gave up on anger entirely and wrote about how he didn’t know how to take care of a child, let alone a little intersex infant who came before it was supposed to and needed surgeries and incubators and round-the-clock care.

Everything is quiet for a moment.  There’s nothing but the sound of Keith pick-pick-picking at the bedspread.  Then he swipes at his face—once, twice, still keeping his head carefully angled away.  “Oh.  I always thought that I—that I was the one who killed her.”  His voice cracks in the middle.

Shiro just barely manages to hold himself back from dragging Keith into a crushing hug.  He’s learned by now that Keith has to process things first—he has to take the time to understand all the nuances of a situation before he can accept physical comfort, otherwise it will overload him and cause him undue anxiety.  So, Shiro gives him a moment to collect himself, and then they talk a bit about the upcoming school year and what Keith should do, what he should expect, how he’s going to get through it.  And then, after that, Shiro leaves him alone with the diary, knowing— _trusting_ —that if he needs comfort he’ll seek it out.  When he’s ready.

Keith catches him just before he turns his light out for bed.  Shiro may not have Coran’s masterful sense of planning or his uncanny ability to act unseen, but he knows these kids.  He pulls Keith in tight to his chest and he’s achingly glad that he can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm never going to have a regular updating schedule, but if things get too dire and you NEED an update, feel free to bother me (read--send along ideas and encouragement) at the-ghost-of-keith-kogane.tumblr.com
> 
> Cheers!


	18. Week Seventeen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone is sent to the principal's office, Shiro gets the meatball shakes, and Keith learns how to waterbend.

It’s another half-day for Shiro.  The university hasn’t started their semester yet and his boss, an old friend of Coran’s by the name of Dr. Ulaz, has been letting him take off after lunch.  All the professors are doing is last minute prep, and Ulaz is of a school of thought that would rather he cut off his own foot than be caught scrambling, so they currently have nothing to do.  Thank the heavens, honestly, because it’s been too long since Shiro has been able to take Allura out for meatballs without getting inundated by the rest of the kids and their take-out requests. 

Meatball Days are a habit they got into after Allura’s graduation, when it was just the two of them in the house during the day.  A sacred treasure—a time of good food and laughter, when they could just joke around together for an hour or so and pretend that Allura wasn’t depressed as fuck and Shiro wasn’t slowly turning gray from stress, any talk more serious than correct Italian seasoning banned until their leftovers were packed away in the fridge.

Which is how today SHOULD have gone, except right when Rax sets down their plates Shiro gets a call from the school about Keith.  Before he even has time to worry about panic attacks and bullying and _oh god the baby_ , the secretary tells him that she has two of his wards in the principal's office.  Apparently, Keith threatened a kid with bodily harm.  And then followed through on the threat.  And Lance was involved somehow which made everything like six times worse.

“It’s the second week,” Shiro groans into the tablecloth.  “How are they already getting in serious trouble the _second week_?”  

Allura shrugs, nudging her coffee over even as she claims Shiro’s plate as her own.  Damn those kids.  According to the rules of Meatball Day, his meatballs are now forfeit.  Shiro spends a good few minutes grinding his forehead into the table, giving Allura a show as a display of apology.  He’ll just leave her enough cash to bring him home a sandwich or something.  Now he must go fetch the damn goblins.

By the time he makes it to the House with Keith and Lance scrunched side-by-side in the truck, Allura has finished her meal, walked home, and is waiting with a smoothie in a to-go cup and an eyebrow expectantly raised.  Lance mewls the instant he sees her, sinking to his knees and then sliding the rest of the way to the floor with a long whine.  “I don’t deserve this,” he says, rolling over just to fling an arm across his face.  Shiro is now one hundred percent sure that he’s diving face first into a depressive episode.  All that’s left is for him to crack open his 3DS and start playing Explorers of Sky for nine hours at a time. 

Feeling equally put out, Shiro slinks over to the couch, scrubbing a hand over his face.  “Please.  Just… sit down for a bit, both of you.  I can’t think of a good punishment right now.  The Principal’s voice is ringing in my head.”

For once, the two of them do as they’re told.  Presumably, the silence means that they’re contemplating what, exactly, went wrong with today.  Maybe they're actually feeling guilt.  Shiro _hopes_ they're feeling guilt.  In any case, that’s how Hunk and Pidge find them, forty minutes later.  Keith, sitting next to Shiro watching the cottonwood tree with a prickly expression; Allura, bored but still waiting around for the punishment demonstration, playing a game on her phone; and Lance, barely inside the door, lying limp underneath his abandoned school bag.  All four of them turn their attention to the door when Pidge walks in with her thumbs hooked in her backpack straps and a shit-eating grin on her face.

“Heard someone got sent to the principal’s office today!” she sings, setting her bag down on Lance’s elbow and twirling a thumb drive on a string.  There are times when she really embodies her mantle of evil hacker, and right now is one of those times.

“They did,” Shiro says.  He’s entered a state that can only be described as meatball withdrawal.  Fifteen seconds, damnit.  He was fifteen seconds away from bliss.  The soggy sub he’s chewing on tastes like _dirt_ in comparison.

“Are you going to punish us now that everybody is here to witness it?” Keith asks, a touch short of sullen.  He’s got his arms crossed tightly across his chest, refusing to make eye contact with anyone.

In Shiro’s opinion, three days of in-school suspension for Keith and lunch-time detention for Lance is more than enough.  As punishment, anyway.  Should he still do something to make sure it won’t happen again?  Probably.  He’s always been pretty good about opening dialogues and now is perhaps a good time to do that.  Possibly. 

He sighs.  He’s really not in the mood, but for the sake of future meatballs, he’ll give it a go.  “What will it take to deter you from doing this?  My disappointment?  I’m disappointed, Keith.”

“We could try the Black Market,” Allura says, perking up.  Her eyes gleam with a mischevious air not unlike those of the mouse hidden in her hair.  “Works for Lance sometimes.”

“That’s true,” Lance says, raising his unencumbered arm into the air to point at the ceiling.  “As a deterrent, it’s like… sixty-three percent effective.” 

Not the direction Shiro was planning on going, but okay.  He scrubs a hand over his eyes.  Yeah… he’s _really_ not feeling this right now.  He’ll pick up the thread again before the kids go to bed.  For now, he’s pretty okay with watching Pidge pull up the Blackmail Directory, drowning his sorrows in excessive amounts of Italian dressing.

“What… how is my folder twice the size of everyone but Lance’s?!  I’ve barely been here that long!” Keith says as she hooks up the HDMI cable to the TV screen for proper blackmail viewing.

The rest of them snicker as Hunk looks on sympathetically.  “To be fair dude… you throw up a lot.  Take it from a guy who throws up a lot—” Hunk puts a hand on his own chest, “—you throw up a _lot_.”

“That was morning sickness!  I’m over it!”

“Yeah, but it was _really fucking funny_ while it lasted—like look at this one,” Pidge says, and opens a video file.  On the screen, a very pixelated Keith is drinking something.  He lowers the cup slowly, staring at it as if it holds the answers to the questions of the universe, then announces in a conversational tone, ‘yeah, that’s coming back up.’ 

Pidge, both on screen and in real life, dissolves into giggles.  Real life Keith drags a hand down his face and glares out the window.  “I honest to god hate you,” he says, in the same conversational tone.

“You don’t get to hate me.  Not after the sheer number of times I was in there rubbing your back and handing you tissues,” Pidge snorts. 

Keith stares, dead-eyed.  “You are the physical embodiment of the gif of the person trying to comfort someone by petting them with a mop.”

Caught off guard, Lance blurts out a scream-laugh that has him slapping both hands over his mouth as Pidge hovers threateningly over a file titled ‘Lance Tap-dances’.  “Wait, don’t—” he yelps, but she’s already pressed the button.  Lance's pitiful moans almost make Shiro feel better.  He'd never admit it out loud, but there actually is something sweet and satisfying about utilizing the Black Market.

 

* * *

 

 

“Jokes aside, we do need to talk about what happened.”

It’s after dinner now, and the merriment is over.  Well, what little merriment that could be had during an impromptu episode of America’s Funniest House Voltron Videos with Pidge as the host.  It was more like a public roast than a comedy show. 

Shiro, five hours later, is finally getting over his meatball slump.  He’s feeling hot chocolate now.  This is a three-mug problem and Shiro intends to solve it.  Like the prelude to any bad joke, the three of them are tucked side by side in Keith’s bed, steaming mugs in hand.  It’s oddly similar to Keith’s first hot chocolate vigil, except this time Keith looks a hell of a lot less scared that Shiro is going to lash out at him for saying something amiss and Shiro keeps Lance pinned in place with a hard glare instead of waving him away.

“I want you two—” Shiro gestures back and forth to either side “—to walk me through it so I can figure out where things went wrong.  Then we can try to find a way to do it differently next time it happens.”

“Nothing went _wrong_ ,” Keith says, at the same time that Lance lets out a breath and an ‘oh, boy’.

It’s hardly been two seconds and already that’s a lot to unpack.  Shiro pauses to lace his flesh fingers through the joints of his prosthesis, settling them around the mug in his lap, thinking before he speaks.  Should he bring up the punching first?  Or maybe he should touch on Lance’s newly-instated-go-to-mouthing-off policy, just to get it out of the way sooner.  Lance is good with teachers, always has been, but he’s really, _really_ bad with other kids he doesn’t like.  It’s just gotten worse the older he gets.  But then again, physical violence seems to trump potty-mouthing.  Especially with the way Keith handled it. 

See, on the one hand, Keith can be brash and often abrasive with his anger.  But, on the other, he doesn’t snap for no reason.  The story he told the principal, the story that Lance corroborated, was that Acxa got screwed over by her lab partner and when she called him out on it the dude got nasty, prompting Keith and Lance to step in.  Which yes, by all means—Shiro isn’t going to stop the kids when they stand up against injustice.  Like, he’s not a hypocrite, here.  It’s just… _not the best idea_ to throw the first and only punch during something that wasn’t even close to a fistfight.  It’s the opposite problem of bringing a knife to a gun fight.

There’s a word for that.  Escalation.  And if Keith doesn’t see that as an issue…  Shiro wants to sigh to himself.  _Oh, Keith_.

“Hitting someone in the face isn’t ideal,” is the response he finally settles on, sipping his hot chocolate. 

“Well, I warned him,” Keith mumbles, now staring a hole into his socked foot.  His expression… it's one he gets when he has something dragging his thoughts downward, like when he gets worried about his financial burden.  What's going on in his head?  On Shiro's other side is Lance, eyes unfocused, who is infinitely easier to figure out.  Fingers tap a rhythm onto his mug, and it's obvious that he'd rather be sinking to the center of the Earth than sitting here, talking about this.  He would probably be more willing to sit through more Black Market videos than have this discussion. 

Together?  Together, the two of them add up to nothing but a whole lot of unspecific worries.  Shiro watches them both, waiting for something more, because he just… doesn't have enough information to piece this all together. 

It takes a moment, but finally Keith lets out a huff and says, “look, sometimes a bluff works.  I don’t follow through unless I have to.” 

His tone is sharp, sharper than it really has a right to be.  Shiro recalls the old records that the social workers sent him—fight after fight after fight.  He shuffles so that he’s facing more toward the side where Keith is huddled up.  “Keith, look at me, please?”

He barely catches dark, flighty eyes before they fasten on the blankets again.  Shiro sighs.

“Keith… you didn’t have to hit him.  Neither you or Lance were in actual physical danger.  Axca was already on her way to get a teacher.  You had every chance to walk away once you knew that Axca was safe.  There was _no reason_ to follow through.  There was no reason to bluff in the first place.  You should have taken control of the situation in a better, safer way.”

Silence.  There's no indication that the kid is even listening.  But he must be—it's not like him to outright ignore a learning moment.  What is Shiro missing?

"…Why did you bluff?" he asks softly, working his way backwards to see if he can hit the root of the problem.

He's rewarded with Keith making a noise that sounds almost like a snarl.  It would have been intimidating if not for the way his eyes are getting glassy, his fingers twisted in the blanket as he resolutely looks away.  “Because I don’t _know_ any better,” he says, bitterly, a dig at himself that makes Shiro’s eyebrows pinch together.  “You’re just wasting your time trying to teach me, Shiro.  I’m never gonna get it.”

By the looks of it, Lance agrees with that sentiment.  Fighting the urge to bop Lance on the shoulder, Shiro asks, “why is that?”  He hopes he sounds patient.   _Channel Coran_ , he coaches himself silently. 

“Because I know that I shouldn't get violent and it doesn’t help!”  Keith’s voice turns up sharply, pitched high with hurt.  It strikes Shiro like a blow to the inside of his sternum.  The feeling only gets worse when he realizes that he doesn’t have all the answers, doesn’t have magic words that will make this better.  Especially as Keith pushes aside his hot chocolate to scrub both hands through his hair, tugging it in rhythm with the words leaving his mouth.  “I just get fucking— _angry_.  And then the next thing I know I’m in trouble and everyone is mad at me and I don’t know how to _not be me_!”

God, there has to be an answer to this, right?  Shiro takes his time to turn it over.  Enough time that a few mutinous, frustrated tears drop down Keith’s chin and he all but slaps them away, trying to regulate his breathing.  In a process that is becoming all but routine, Shiro nudges his mug back into his hand.  He grips it so tightly that his knuckles bleach white.  He’s worked up now, shame and guilt and frustration all tightly coiled across his hunched shoulders.  It’s a pose more familiar than it should be… especially taking into account the short length of time that Shiro has known Keith.  The familiarity comes from somewhere deeper in his memories. Where has he seen that kind of body language before…?

It takes a moment before it clicks.  “Lance… do you remember the diversion technique?” Shiro asks softly, turning back the other way.

Lance blinks back into the conversation.  “Sure,” he says, immediately picking up on the chance to steer them away from topics with a high chance of Keith self-destructing.  “It’s super simple, even a baby could—”

“Lance.”

“Right.  Uh… it’s like, you have a river, right?  And the river is your emotions.  And a flood—a flood is like the moment you can’t handle them anymore and they spill over.  So, in order to prevent a flood, you have to divert the river when it’s still upstream.  Like, you can’t do it when the water is already rising over the banks because you’re never going to do it in time.  You have to have a plan in place for the instant you feel the storm clouds building up.”

This time, Shiro can tell that Keith is listening by the tilt of his head and the way his eyes track Lance’s shadow when the kid gets up to snatch an abandoned sheet of loose leaf off the floor.  Lance settles back, now pawing around for a writing utensil to scribble a diagram. 

“Look—here’s the river.  And some, uh… little farmhouses or something that will flood if the river rises.”  Lance carefully draws some squares and triangles, moving on to a squiggle that looks like what would happen if a turkey and a grasshopper got it on.  After a few minutes of this, Keith starts to squirm impatiently, prompting Lance to lay down the finishing touches on a cow with a large ‘KALTENECKER’ branded on its butt.  “Here.  So, diversion.  When you dam up a river, there’s always a chance that the dam will break, and the flood will be ten times worse, right?  If you bottle up your emotions you're just going to explode.  So what do you do instead?”  He lays down a strike diagonally across the water, before drawing a bunch of waves moving off to the side.  He then slaps the paper down on Shiro’s thigh, grinning triumphantly.  “Divert!”

“What does this have to do with punching someone in the face?” Keith asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Follow the yellow brick road, Keithy,” Lance says.

“I thought it was a river?”

“What?  No, I just meant… the metaphor, man.  The reference was to the metaphor.  Follow the metaphor.”

“I… um.”  Keith carefully picks up the drawing and stares at it intently, like he can force it to make sense if he sandblasts it with the might of his indomitable will.  Shiro waits to see if it'll catch.  “So… it’s like…” 

It does not.  He trails off, his face twisting in frustration.  “…I don’t get it.”

Taking pity on him, Shiro picks up a red pen from the dresser and starts to add labels.  Rippling river—anger.  Floodwater—fist.  Poor little KALTENECKER—dude’s face.

“Oh.”  Keith takes the paper back.  “That’s… great, and all, but… I don’t understand how I’m supposed to…”

He gestures at the place where the river gets diverted to the side.

“It’s substitution, basically,” Shiro says.  “Say you know that when you get angry, you fist your hands, and when you fist your hands, you want to punch something.  Take the energy that would go into your fists and put it into something else.  Like, say… a stress ball.  Your emotions are then channeled somewhere less destructive.”

Keith nods in understanding, snatching the pen to scrawl some notes.  His lips purse in a familiar look of concentration, like when he’s focused on a particularly challenging math problem.  Shiro guides him through a few more examples.  This is an easy pattern—Keith soaks up practical reasoning and logistical planning the same way Hunk does.  Has Keith ever tried out engineering or mechanics?  Shiro makes a note to ask him later.  First, they’re gonna work through this.  It’s anyone’s guess whether or not it’ll stick come hell or high water, but at least it gives Keith something constructive to think about, which is something Shiro is willing to bet he's needed ever since the diary reveal.

Lance and Shiro stick around for a few more minutes after that, offering different ideas for diversions until Pidge leans around the doorway to suggest ‘cut off a lock of your own hair as an intimidation technique’ and Shiro decides that they’ve probably maxed out their helpfulness for the night.  Lance stands and stretches with an obnoxious groan, shuffling out of the room, and Shiro is on his heels when he hears Keith call out to him.

He turns, leaning on the doorframe.  Keith is up, scrambling to the dresser where he pulls a wad of crumpled dollar bills out of a sock.  “Um… here,” he says, thrusting his fist out.  “Y’know, for your meatballs.  Cuz it’s my fault you had to come pick us up.”  And then, in a much smaller voice, “ _and as thanks for not giving up on me_.”

“ _No!_   No, no no no!” Shiro groans, pushing the fist away.  For a second, panic flits across Keith’s face—then fear, _rejection_ , shame, all in a tight spiral.  Shiro brushes them away as fast as he can, holding out his arms for a hug.  It’s not until he has Keith carefully pressed against his front that he says, with every ounce of sincerity he can muster: “Giving up on you isn’t an option, buddy.”

“But—”

“No, I’m serious.  I don’t care how much you fuck up.  As long as you aren’t a danger to the other kids, as long as you’re willing to work on getting better, I’ll be right here working with you.  Okay?”

“Um.  Yeah.”

“Yeah?”  He squeezes Keith a little tighter and gets a laugh and a half-hearted shove.  Keith grins into his shoulder.  “So it’s settled.  You don’t owe me anything.  I’m here because I want to be.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.” 

On his way out the door, he pauses to ruffle Keith’s hair.  The smile he gets in response is astonishingly bright.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seventeen is my favorite number!! Just thought that might be some fun trivia.  
> I'm not so hot about this chapter but I wanted to get it posted anyway. I'm always open to input :O  
> Cheers!


	19. If Weeks Were Years, They Could Buy a Lotto Ticket

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shiro makes a dubious decision, Hunk's mom is the real MVP, and Keith cries one more time. Dreams are sometimes meant to come true.

Keith is sharp, in profile.  Still, despite now steadily gaining weight.  From the side, his nose is as stark and sloped as ever, his brows made of cutting wire where they are drawn tight in an almost pained expression.  The slant of his chin and jaw is angular, accentuated by a line of moonlight caught on one edge.  Spikey tufts of his hair point in a dozen directions.  His eyes glint.  Sitting in the darkness, he is made of granite and marble.  He’s a statue.  An edifice carved from insomnia and something brittle that Shiro feels echoed in his own psyche.

There’s something on the kid’s mind.  Something that goes beyond a petty fight or tentative coping techniques that the school counselor heartily endorses.  It’s _been_  on his mind.  Shiro isn’t oblivious.  It was there last week, likely a catalyst for said fight.  It’s probably been there, a lead anchor dragging the rocky bottom of the seafloor, since the night of the victory pie.  As he watches in a sleep-deprived haze, Shiro curses that pie. 

Not with any real intent, mind you, because the pie was delicious.  But the pie is now intrinsically linked to sorrow, and it’s the sorrow he sees in the seventeen-year-old who is up long past his bedtime, sitting alone at the kitchen table shrouded in darkness for the third time this week.

“Hey,” Shiro calls over after he’s deemed that he’s been standing there, zoned out and waxing poetic, for long enough.

“Uh?”  Keith blinks blearily, his head pivoting on the hand holding it up.  Whatever he was thinking while he was glaring out the window is immediately covered with a heavy layer of something akin to exhaustion.  His shoulders slump as he stares at Shiro.

‘Conversation’ this late at night isn’t so much talking as it is trying to cast words from the mold of a too-slow tongue.  It was easier the first time he caught Keith out here a few days ago—he’d felt more awake then.  Every day since has just been that much more of a drag.  “It’s sleep time,” Shiro manages to say despite the strain.  He doesn’t have the eloquence for anything more.

“Oh,” Keith says in response, delayed by a similar sluggishness.  What a pair the two of them make.  He rubs at his eyes, lips curving into a frown.  “Yeah, I'm on my way.  I'm just… tired.”

Tired.  Shiro knows a non-answer when he hears one, but he’s not awake enough for it to do much besides shimmer like a mirage.  “Which is… why it’s sleep time,” he manages to point out, tilting his cheek against the shoulder of his nightshirt as if to illustrate the point.  There’s a yawn locked behind his jaw that he’s been holding off for a few minutes now, but he knows he’s not going to last much longer. 

Keith, however, closes his eyes in something just short of a wince, like Shiro caught him in a lie.  “Right,” he says.  The moonlight makes his face paler than it is in daylight—colder, harder.  Tired isn’t the half of it—he looks exhausted.

Shiro squints at the kid from his new sideways point of view, puzzling.  “Can’t sleep?” he finally asks.

“Yeah.  I guess I’m just… having trouble with that.”

It’s more than he’s given in the past few days.  Right about this point yesterday he’d just shrugged and slipped away down the hall, closing his door softly behind him.  Shiro hums for a moment, trying to think of what you do when the pregnant seventeen-year-old in your care says he’s having trouble sleeping.

 _Logically_ , Normal Shiro would be quick to note, _you ask him if something is on his mind_.  Keith has been all but shoved at the jaws of the starting school year, carrying the weight of a diary from the mother he thought he killed, struggling to balance his mental health, a new living situation, and a past that left fingerprints in all kinds of unsavory places… all while incubating a life that isn’t his, that he never wanted.  Anyone with a brain would offer to talk, to offer a balm for a troubled mind.

…3 AM Shiro, apparently, does not own a brain. The only real course of action 3 AM Shiro is coming up with in his own sleep-deprived bubble is to move Keith in with one of the other kids for the night.  It’s the unconscious instinct of some pack animal—put all the cubs in a pile and they will sooth each other. 

He’s stuck on the idea before he even fully articulates it.  He scrubs his hand through his hair, trying to think things through objectively.  Or, at the very least, knock his head far enough into consciousness that he can fully comprehend what he’s doing.  The gentle snores drifting down the hall from the Blue Room aren’t helping.  There _have_ to be some cons to this, right?  Right.  Or a better solution.  There must be _something_ he can do that makes some amount of sense. 

Eh.  Not at three in the morning, there’s not.  He gives in, the yawn finally scraping past his tonsils.

Lance wakes when they turn on the hall light and crack the door.  “Something wicked this way comes,” he sings sleepily, flopping his hand on the bed in a half-wave.  Hunk mumbles something in his sleep and continues snoring. 

All Shiro has the brainpower to do is nudge Keith toward Lance’s bed.  Keith is giving him an odd look, but Lance seems to get the idea almost immediately, rolling over so he can pat the sheets invitingly.  “C’mon, Blimp, into the bed you go,” he says.  Then he blinks and frowns.  “Wait… do I need to move?  Am I sharing with Hunk?  God, you’re not kicking me out of my own room, are you?”

Keith looks back at Shiro as if he’s asking for answers.  Shiro does not have the answers.  The limit of Shiro’s knowledge is the fact that nothing feels real anymore.  His brain is a sieve and he’s losing himself fast.  He busies himself with fetching pillows before he literally falls asleep with his eyes open.

“Uh… do you want to move?” Keith asks, uncertain, as Shiro passes over several pillows.  Shiro can’t remember how many pillows a bed usually has.

“Mmm… no, but I can,” Lance says into his sheets.  He’s less awake than Shiro and fading even faster.  “My case for staying is as follows: warm.  Also, if you don’t make me get up I promise I won’t kick you in my sleep.”

“But you’ll kick me from across the room if I make you move?”

The words flit through Shiro’s subconscious, never fully entering, as Lance responds with, “something like that,” and is already back to sleep.

That’s all Keith needs, apparently, because he shrugs and carefully climbs in.  It’s good.  Shiro tucks the last pillow between them so that no one gets weird-groped in their sleep, mumbles something about coming to the Black Room if there’s still an issue, and then his entire brain shuts down so hard that he doesn’t even remember toddling back to his own bed.

 

* * *

 

 

So… Shiro thinks he did a pretty good job handling the aftermath of the fight last week.  The solution was impromptu, a right ‘seat-of-his-pantser’ in Coran speak (is that Aussie slang or is it an idiom mashup he concocted one day? the world may never know), but Keith seemed to really take it to heart.  That _and_ Shiro’s insistence that he is there to help.  It seemed like a crucial stepping stone in the direction of something better—better coping mechanisms, better emotional regulation, better communication.  They were heading toward cohesion.

Which only puts things into starker contrast when the chorus of morning alarms blasts Shiro into wakefulness and he is finally conscious enough to question just what the HELL he thought he was _thinking_ when he put _all_ of the boys in the same room, and Keith _in Lance’s bed_. 

He’s in a panic when he slams his half-arm on his bedside alarm clock and tries to scramble out of his sheets.  It was such a rookie move, jesus.  Two kids in one room pushes it—he KNOWS this, especially after the fiasco when Pidge first came.  Allura didn’t talk to him for a full month after that.  Hunk and Lance may have a good system, but adding another body (two bodies? a body and a half?) to an already filled space?  No Bueno.  Point one: loud.  Point two: crowded.  Point three: Lance.  Point four… well, you get the point.  Points.  _Multiple_.  The Shakespearian collide of temperaments could very well take down the entire House.  The dream-like quality of the whole thing doesn’t negate the stupidity of it, and it CERTAINLY doesn’t stop him from trotting to the Blue Room with his tail between his legs and his fingers crossed that everyone made it out alive. 

Turns out they did.  And, as a bonus, Keith and Hunk are teaming up to drag Lance out of bed, no prompting required.  Wow.  Shiro blows out a breath in pure relief.  He owes 3 AM Shiro ice cream.  That guy is an unaccounted-for _genius_.  Well, excluding the part where 3 AM Shiro completely forgot about the chamomile tea on the kitchen counter, the melatonin in the bathroom cabinet, _and_ the lavender oil in the Blue Room that Lance uses as a sleep aid.  Listen, cut him some slack, the guy was out of it.

At lunchtime, he’s treating himself to soft-serve from the machine in the university cafeteria when his phone rings.  Weathering the ninety percent chance of impending high school drama, he crawls into one of the booths in the corner and takes three hearty bites of his ice cream, a feat that would have Hunk shivering and pulling a face if he was here to see it.  Doesn’t matter.  He REFUSES to have another meatball situation on his hand, and the mildly painful cold sensation is hardly enough to deter him.

Any trepidation he has evaporates when he hears the cheery voice of one of Hunk’s moms on the other end of the line.  “Trigel!” he says, sitting straight automatically.

“Shiro!” she greets, just as warm.  “Gosh, but do you sound tired, honey.  Have you been having a lot of trouble with your brood?”

If Coran is like a grandpa to everyone he’s ever met, this woman is 100% universal granny.  Oddly enough, she’s also ex-military—weapons research, Los Alamos Laboratory.  It was her acquaintanceship with Coran that brought Hunk into their path when she and her wife started dealing with their dark and gloomy legal problems.  “Nothing to worry yourself about, Tri.  It’s the start of the school year, things will calm themselves down soon enough.  What can I do for you?”

“I may have an answer to a question you brought to me a while back.  Regarding, ah… what was the code name for it?  The Little Alien?”

Hiding a grin behind his cone so that the swarming college kids don’t start to side-eye the weird older guy sitting alone in the caf, Shiro responds in the affirmative.  Unlike her wife, Trigel has always been quite fond of Lance’s tendency to rename every person he meets, usually after characters from old cartoons.  She finds it ‘endearing’. 

“Please, tell me you know someone who knows someone who wants a baby,” he says, hardly daring to hope.

“As a matter of fact, I do!”

Shiro could _cry_ , he’s so relieved.  This is much better than any conversation he could have expected.  Not that he really minds the fact that Lance sometimes sneaks out of class to power-bitch for three minutes about Axca and Narti’s _clandestine_ developing relationship, but sometimes he just wants to get things done without all the fuss.  This… this is one of those things, and it has been hanging over him for _months_. 

Pressure lifts off his shoulders as he writes down the names and number of a couple that Trigel vouches for whole-heartedly.  Praise Coran’s mustache.  They’ve been putting it off and putting it off, skirting around the fact that they only have so much time, taking it day by day for the sake of Keith’s sanity; Shiro has put so much energy into not stressing Keith out that he’s just now realizing how much of that burden he’s put on himself.  The fact that they still have to get someone to help with the legal process, make an adoption plan, talk about the hospital stay… none of that matters compared to the euphoria of finally having a direction to go, finally being able to wriggle part of the way out from under the crushing weight. 

He chit-chats with Trigel for a few more minutes, savors the last of his ice cream, and then sinks into his seat with a long, whistling sigh.  Forget the poor anxious first years staring at him like they don’t know what’s normal or not—they have a _family_.  They have a couple who wants exactly what they can give.  And if this couple doesn’t work out, Trigel said she knew of a few others they could get in contact with.

He can’t wait to tell Keith.

 

* * *

 

 

Keith is tired, when Shiro picks the kids up from the school.  Shiro is, too—he really started to feel his interrupted sleep cycle just before Ulaz’s one PM lecture, and it was only the buzz of excitement that kept him from nodding off on the pile of syllabi that he was supposed to hand out.  It’s been a hard few weeks, and it will probably only get worse as the semester goes on.

That said, he really wasn’t expecting Keith to burst into tears at the news.

“Whoa, hey, are you okay?” Shiro asks, halfway out of the porch chair he’d settled in to have the talk.  His hands hover, uncertain.  It’s… it’s not like they never talked about this.  It’s come up quite a few times, now.  He thought… he thought this was what Keith wanted?

“ _Ugh_ ,” Keith says, with feeling.  He sniffles, oddly quiet for someone with tears streaming down their face, and wipes his nose on his sleeve.  “I’m… I’m okay, I’m fine, I just…”

It takes him a moment to center himself, during which Shiro hands him tissues from the tissue box that comes slithering sheepishly out the door.  Shiro makes sure to flick the fingers holding it before it slips back inside, because _how many times does he need to tell them not to listen in?_   He hears a hiss of pain, and then a snicker.  The door closes.  Keith mops at his face.

“What’s up?” Shiro asks, on edge.  He’s ready to spout reassurances, as many as needed.  In fact, he’ll start now: “Nothing is set in stone, buddy.  You can change your mind every day until the Little Alien is born if you want to.”

“No, it’s not… it just hit me that the Little Alien is gonna have all kinds of things that I never did.  Shiro, it’s gonna have a _mom_.  _Two_ moms.”  He laughs, an odd, fluttering sound that verges on sobbing, and then he shoves a knuckle in his mouth and bites down, groaning.  “I’m so stupidly _emotional_ ,” he whines around the appendage, his face scrunched up.

“Oh.”  Shiro leans over to press his palm against Keith’s shoulder blade, rubbing soothingly.  “So… you’re really okay with this?  This is really what you want?”

Knuckle temporarily released, Keith nods, emphatically.  “I’m sorry that I keep crying,” he says, now repressing hiccups.  He’s taking deep, slow breaths to calm himself down.  Shiro waves it off.  Hormones, he gets it.  They sit in silence for a bit, and it’s so far removed from the tense silence of last week that Shiro almost wants to laugh out loud. 

"We're gonna meet them, right?" Keith asks, hand pressed protectively on the curve of his belly. 

Shiro nods, grinning.  "As soon as you want to, buddy." 

In true Keith fashion, the kid demands that they set up a meeting immediately.  When Shiro pulls out his phone right there and calls the number from Trigel to organize a get-together so they could get things started, Keith scrunches down in his chair and cups a hand over the smile trying to break free.  Later, Hunk calls them in to help with dinner, and while they chop veggies and mince garlic Shiro tentatively starts to formulate an actual, legitimate plan.

Will they stick to it?  Unlikely.  Will there be too many changes to keep track of by the time they meet with the couple next week?  Yeah, probably.  That’s how House Voltron does.

But how House Voltron _also_ does is roll with the punches, take risks, comfort each other… and come out the other side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I ever have a stride and can I get back to it if so? You may notice that there is now a chapter count... it's because I finally got around to counting all the chapters. I really am sorry about the sporadic updates, but hey, with this chapter we hit 50k words! Overall I have 82k written for this and connected pieces so I could never abandon it, I'm just working hella out of order.
> 
> You can come say hi at the-ghost-of-keith-kogane.tumblr.com if you want!
> 
> Also: heard someone say 'poetic' in one of the comments. How's THIS for poetic? *throws down shiro's late-night rambling*


	20. Week Nineteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keith tries out his charming, the Little Alien kicks, and Shiro flies too close to the sun.

And just like that, a new normal clicks into place.  Sure, Keith is now sleeping with Lance and Shiro can’t deny that he deserves the wary look Pidge shoots at him when she finds out it's going to be permanent until further notice, but the boys are doing better.  Keith gets to bed at a normal time and stays there through the night, and Lance’s oversleeping has been cut brutally short by the fact that Keith can literally just shove him to the floor every morning.  It’s mutually beneficial, with the added bonus of cutting Shiro’s late-night wandering way down. 

The only downside is that, as predicted, bickering has picked up dramatically.

Right now, Shiro can hear them arguing in the kitchen.  You'd think having a day off from school would chill them out, but nooo.  He was going to go fetch his pretzels but suddenly he just… doesn’t care to.  They can afford to drop a few dollars on a new bag, right?  He works for his money, if he wants to buy salty snacks instead of a vegetable he damn well can.

Then there’s a yell followed by a slap, skin on skin, and he decides if they need an intervention then the LEAST he’s gonna get out of it is his god damn pretzels, thank you very much.  He marches in, ready to start taking names—all two of them, damnit—to find that it’s Keith with the stinging handprint on his face for once.  He’s staring at Lance with his mouth open, hand hovering over the red mark.

“Why did you—” he starts, choking, and Lance suddenly scoots back.  Both of their eyes flit to Shiro in the doorway, but he barely has their attention for half a second before Lance is rushing in, tongue tripping.

“Dude, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, you were closer than I was expecting when I turned around and I didn’t think about it, but honestly you _never_ get that close what the fuck were you—?”

Keith gapes, his hand twitching, then blurts, “I felt—I didn’t move ‘cause I—Shiro, I think I felt the Little Alien kick!”

“Wha… really?” Shiro dares ask.  Keith’s complained about odd little flutters for weeks now, grousing about trying to pay attention in class when the baby is obviously trying to distract him, but it’s never been what the doctor jokingly calls ‘intentional movement’.  The poor little thing is still underdeveloped at twenty-four weeks, hitting milestones late.

Keith presses a hand to the side of his belly, his expression far away.  His face falls just a little.  “Still can’t tell from the outside, but I swear to god you guys—"

“THE BABY’S KICKING,” Lance screams at the top of his lungs.  He almost grabs Keith by the shoulders but manages to divert himself at the last second, instead latching onto Shiro.  “JESUS FUCKING CHRIST EVERYBODY THE BABY IS KICKING, THIS ISN’T A DRILL!”

“God, shut up!” Allura yells from her room, but Lance cannot be silenced.

“WE ARE IN BABY-CON ONE, GUYS!  EVERYBODY ON HIGH ALERT!  _WRRRRAAA—AAAARRRRROOWWWWWWWWWWWW—_ "

Shiro is well aware that when he’s this depressed, it’s a conscious effort for Lance to hit this level of obnoxious.  That’s why he only feels a little bad when he clamps a hand over the siren noises and says, “Yeah, not doing that.”

Keith, meanwhile, is still zoning the fuck out, hand pressed to his middle.  Suddenly he makes a face.  “God, do you think they’re gonna try and touch me?” he asks, utterly horrified.

“Who, the Taujeerians?” Lance asks, muffled.

At that, Keith makes an even worse face.  “You couldn’t come up with a better name for them than some giant space grubs?”

“Hey!” Lance snaps, defensive.  “I was going to call them Olkari except Trigel’s wife is technically Ryner and everybody knows she’s the only important Olkari—”

“So you picked Taujeerians?  _No_.”

“Oh, _now_ you have an opinion about Voltron?  What are you going to tell me next, your favorite character is one of the Arusians?”

“That’s a hell of a lot better than Swirn of planet demon-salad.”

“Swirn is enigmatic!  You take that back!”

Shiro plucks his pretzels off the shelf and leaves them to it.  It’s only until the… yeah, he’s not calling them Taujeerians, Keith is right about that one.  Only until the _sweet, sweet young lesbian couple_ arrives.  He’s only got to hold out until then.

 

* * *

 

 

Three.  Hours.  Later.

“Can I offer you some tea?” Shiro asks politely, pulling out a neatly organized container of teabags that Hunk spent most of the morning sorting.  He starts some water boiling, preps a quartet of mugs, and glances over to see how Keith is doing.

Keith, sitting at the table with their guests, is looking at him weird, like he wasn’t quite ready for the customer service voice to come out.  Fair.  Shiro is laying it on pretty thick right now.  His palm is sweatier than it should be considering their guests are two short Latina women who are dressed in their Sunday best.  Maggie—Lance would kill him if he heard him using, _gasp_ , her real name, but Lance has been _banished_ for the duration of this meeting so—is a graphic designer with incredibly red hair.  Sonia, barely taller than Pidge and decked out in the cutest three-piece suit Shiro has ever seen, is an immigration lawyer.  Together they’re the picture of the amicable, ready-to-adopt couple, and Shiro has never felt more inadequate in his life.

He just… wants to impress them?  Maybe impress is the wrong word—they aren’t _shopping_ for a baby.  He supposes what he really wants is to do anything in his power to not screw this up for Keith.

…When you put it like that, it really does sound like they’re selling the baby.  Yikes.  He can feel the searing, unimpressed quirk of Coran’s brows like the old man is standing behind him.

He distracts himself by offering not-bribes of freshly made scones.  It’s whatever.  They’ll get through this.  This is just preliminary stuff—getting to know each other, deciding if it’s a good match, ticking a few boxes to make sure they’re not displaying signs of bigotry or asian fetishism, that kind of thing.  If today goes well, they’ll meet again to set up an adoption plan.

“I think you’re very brave,” Maggie says, and Shiro thinks it’s good that she’s looking into adopting a human who doesn’t yet have the power to understand speech.  Teenagers don’t usually respond well to that kind of condescending tone.

Keith takes it in stride.  He’s doing so well—keeping his fidgeting to a minimum, responding when they ask questions, keeping his tone sarcasm free.  He doesn’t spare a glance at Shiro, doesn’t waver under the oddly expectant gazes.  What you expect of a teenager who was pushed into a horrid situation against their will Shiro really couldn’t tell you, but that’s neither here nor there.

“I just think that this is the best option, especially considering how my—”  He falters, so quickly that Shiro doesn’t think the ladies catch it.  “—how I was raised.  I don’t want the Little Alien to have the same life I did.”  Except worse, maybe, he doesn’t say.  A life full of struggle, without even a diary from its missing parent.  Though of course, Shiro would try his hardest to help if that was the route Keith chose to take, so then again maybe not.  Maybe one asshole of a parent who gets cut out of the picture and replaced by a Housefull of pseudo-family who are completely unprepared but making up for it with enthusiasm wouldn’t completely fuck the kid's life.

Either way.  Everyone talks for a while more and then the ladies thank them and shake Keith’s hands for about two minutes too long, and Shiro promises to get on that paperwork, Maggie, you bet!  Finally, they’re gone, and as soon as the door swings shut behind them Keith groans and faceplants onto the table.

“Hey, Lance?  You there?” he calls.

Hunk’s head pops right out of the hallway, Lance clinging to his back, like they were standing there waiting like that.  “You rang?” Lance says cheerfully.

“Did I sound as much like a moron as I felt?”

“Dude, no, no way.  You were super suave,” Hunk says, carrying Lance into the kitchen where he deposits him gently in a chair.  Pidge follows, her laptop propped on one shoulder, to set up shop next to the leftover scones.

“I didn’t ask for ass-kissing,” Keith says, still refusing to look up.  “I asked for honesty, plain and simple.  Did I or did I not sound like I was about to swallow my own tongue?”

“You think you’re going to get honesty from Lance, of all people?” Pidge scoffs.  “Good luck.”

“Fuck, you’re right.  Allura!” he calls, finally picking his head up.

“You did fine, now shut up!” Allura calls back.  Keith grumbles unpleasantries, but Shiro can hear the smile in her voice.

 

* * *

 

 

To celebrate, Shiro lets everyone put off their homework until tomorrow and takes a nap.  He hates to admit it, but the older he gets the more of Coran’s habits he picks up.  An unpleasant thought, but there it is. 

Point in case—he's getting increasingly frustrated with having time off.

It’s a Friday, which is a day that Ulaz refuses to hold lectures on the grounds that none of his students want to be there and neither does he.  He’s been this way as long as Shiro has known him—he’s not on good terms with the administration because of the way he forces them to rearrange all his classes, and he probably never will be.  He still, barring the need for extra prep time, gets his Fridays.  Fridays that Shiro used to really enjoy, he swears he did.

Now, though… what the hell is he supposed to do with a few scant days here or there?  Go to his chiropractor?

…Actually, that sounds like a really good idea.  Maybe he’ll make an appointment for next week.  That doesn’t solve the problem of what to do today, though.

Feeling aimless, he follows along when Hunk wheedles Lance off the couch and into a game of frisbee on the front ‘lawn’.  This is their favorite time of year to play—right at the curve of September into fall weather, before school cuts off their sun exposure.  Soon enough, Lance is perking up.

And, a few minutes later, he tackles Hunk—who lets him—into the shrubbery of the house next door.  This is the exact reason that Shiro had Keith sit out.  Keith looks less-than-happy observing, but until the Little Alien comes there is a strict anti-roughhousing policy, enforced by anyone within enforcing distance.

It’s okay, though, because Shiro _apparently_ has nothing better to do than to keep him company.  He guesses he’s also there to supervise and make sure Lance doesn’t hurl the frisbee into the rooftop graveyard to join the others roosting up there.  Coran is walking the neighborhood, passing the house with a wave every fifteen minutes as he gets his exercise, and on his latest pass, he trots by talking animatedly with a young kid rolling a dirt bike down the street.

This, Shiro learns, is a magical coincidence, because the moment he sees the bike, Keith gets a glowy look about him.  Shiro hums a question.

“I used to build dirt bikes to race.  From scratch,” Keith says, accompanied by the softest look Shiro has ever seen on his face.  It doesn’t last for long, as his lips quirk up into a smirk almost instantly.  “I’ve always wanted to build a street racer, though.”

A thousand stains on Keith’s clothes flash before Shiro’s eyes.  Those were bike fluids this _entire time_?  Jesus Christ, Shiro has just been assuming the worst for _months_ now and finally the mystery is solved and it’s… just engine oil.

“Well,” Shiro says, once he’s done recalibrating his entire existence.  “Coran knows everyone who knows anyone around here—maybe we could look into getting some kind of project for you and Hunk.”  And Pidge, he supposes, if Pidge can conquer her fear of mosquitos long enough to sit outside for any length of time.

Keith lights up, frisbee completely forgotten.  “Are you serious?” he demands, leaning over and clutching the arm of his chair.  His eyes are large and bright in his face as he scours Shiro for any signs of a bluff.

“Of course.  On—hold up—on one condition.”  Shiro holds up a mechanical finger menacingly, halting Keith in his tracks.

“What?” Keith asks, warily.

Shiro stretches the ominous silence as long as he can.  It’s not long, not with how dark and intimidating Keith’s glare can be, but he holds out for a good fifteen seconds before he caves.  “Schoolwork will always take priority.  If I tell you to pack it in, you pack it in.  Understood?”

“Oh, _hell_ yes!”

What a spark.  Shiro feels giddy just looking at him.  He's practically bouncing in his seat. 

The next time Coran comes through, Shiro gathers the boys and sets off after him, waiting until all the lemmings have caught up before he broaches the topic.  As expected, Coran rambles off three different shops near the city center, giving his recommendations and reviews of both the product and the owners.

“Never trust an Unilu,” he says, giving Keith a brisk pat on the back.  “Old Louie has the best merchandise in the country, maybe with the exception of a few old-school establishments that survived the Detroit industrial bust, but he’ll sooner co-opt your house than offer a decent price!”

“You don’t mean Rolo’s Uncle Louie, right?” Hunk asks suspiciously, carrying Lance piggy-back.

Coran strokes his moustache and takes a measured step around a drainage grate.  “Ah.  Well.  It maaay perhaps be the very man you speak of.”

Hunk curls his lip into a pout, hitching Lance a little higher so he can gesture pointedly.  “Coran, you _promised_ —”

“Ah-ah!  I’m well aware of what I promised: no more grandfather clocks from his antique shop.  The good news is that the mechanic's shop is an entirely different shop, and I’d trust any one of his bikes with my very life!”

Shiro laughs at the way Hunk continues to look like he just inhaled a sour patch kid, reassuring him that if they _do_ go to Louie he can inspect the machines himself.  Hunk concedes, but only once he's explained to Keith in great detail why Uncle Louie is never to be trusted.  Somehow, even after the Coran Clock story (a mess, it was—three thousand dollars, a can of rust-colored spray paint, and two years later there’s a very good reason Hunk hasn’t let it go), Keith still looks like Santa came through for him.

“What have you worked with?” Hunk asks.

“Junk, mostly,” Keith responds.  “I did a lot of salvage, I guess.  I was pretty good at rigging shit together on the fly.  Oh!  There was one time a four-wheeler came onto the lot, nearly brand new with just a few dents in the frame.  The owner let me test it out to see if the brakes were working.  Me and…”

He falters for the second time today, nearly trailing off, but Hunk nudges his arm with enough enthusiasm to gloss over whoever’s name he just got tripped up on.  Sendak's, maybe.  He’s a little quiet as he finishes the story with an, “anyway, I took it over the edge of a ravine with four passengers.  So, that was pretty cool.”

There will come a time when Shiro learns not to be surprised by anything that crosses Keith’s tongue.  This time… is not it.  Judging by the way Hunk blanches, he was caught just as off guard.  “Oh my _god_.  You didn’t.  _Tell me you didn’t_.”

“Yep.”  Keith regains a little of his self-assurance, head tilted teasingly.  “My first time on a four-wheeler.  I wanted to see what it could do.  You can come next time if you want.” 

Both Lance and Hunk’s eyes bug out of their faces.  “Oh man, I am _so glad I wasn’t there for that_ ,” Hunk moans.  “I’m getting motion sickness just thinking about it.” 

Coran laughs, long and hearty.  In moments, Keith and Lance have descended into yet another argument, this time about who is worse at driving.  Pride is probably not an appropriate emotion for the conversation, but Shiro can’t help the pride that surges up his chest at Keith’s readiness to claim the number two House Voltron driver ranking—second only to Shiro, he says.  From charming the pants off of prospective adopters with his blunt honesty to the way he smiles at the memory of taking a motorized vehicle over the side of a cliff, Keith is something else.

Shiro stops dead in his tracks, letting the kids overtake him and claim the lead.  Is… is he playing favorites?  With dawning horror, he realizes that he might be.  He frantically catches Coran’s eye with a look of panic that only serves to make Coran laugh harder, wiping a tear away as if to say, _you’ve made your bed, Shiro, now lie in it_.  

He does.  He lies in his bed that night, powering through a jumbo bag of pretzels they picked up from the Cafe on their walk back, and he pouts about the fact that he’s fallen into a classic parenting trap.  This should NOT be normal.  Nothing about this is okay.  This is… yikes.  And, to reiterate, _yikes_.  He pulls Friends up on the computer just so he can listen to the theme song and contemplate just how _far_ Keith has wedged himself into his life without either of them noticing.  Oh, he's laying in the bed he made, all right.  Damn it all to _hell_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoo! This is definitely a stride. Cross your fingers that it lasts for a while. When was the last time I put up two chapters in less than 24 hours??


	21. Week Twenty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter Red, brains are hard to deal with, and Lance needs some cuddles.
> 
> Sometimes you gotta go back to your roots.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WAIT! HOLD UP! If you didn't see it, a ficlet just went up called 'Salvage' and you should read it now if you want some major feels at the end of this chapter.

Shiro has come to terms with the fact that he’s an imperfect human being. 

No really, he has.  He eats too many pretzels and forgets to change the channel back after he changes it during commercials and, now that he’s given the kids a quick anonymous poll via fridge magnets with the categories _Shiro Is Equally Fair to All Children_ and _Shiro Is NOT Equally Fair to All Children_ , he’s 100% sure that he has, just a little teeny bit, been playing favorites.

He resolves to fix this particular issue by _equally supporting_ all the kids’ hobbies.  He might be starting with the motorcycle (Hunk, Keith _check_ ), but by next week he plans to be the picture of support for every kid under his roof.  Assuming he can figure out what Allura does for fun other than hanging with Rolo and smoking weed, anyway, because there is a limit to his support and that limit is buying illicit drugs for his niece. 

It’s another Friday, and after he barters a McDonald's trip to Allura to drive Pidge home from school, he picks up the boys in the minivan.  They’re going to the shop Coran knows, and though he only needs to bring the relevant kids, he wants a chance to hang with Lance while the others are occupied.  Keith has been hounding him for information from the adoption agency, and between his impatient ass and Pidge’s I-was-just-joking-I-was-planning-a-heist-after-all heist he feels like Lance is slipping from his grasp. 

He just… he misses talking with Lance.  It's harder for them both when school is in session and Lance's mania isn't driving him to insert himself in places he probably shouldn't be.  But Shiro has this on lock—he can build personal time into a busy schedule like a pro.

The shop is expansive, and the moment they're through the doors, Hunk and Keith are swarming the mechanic at the back.  Shiro falls into place beside Lance, nudging him with a prosthetic elbow, smiling.  “Hey.  I just wanted to check in with you—have you signed up for swimming yet?”

Lance shuffles, one worn sneaker scraping on the stained concrete floor.  He’s looking out across the rows and rows of bikes for sale, but his eyes don’t catch on them.  He’s not really seeing them.  “Um… not really, no.”

“Not really?” Shiro asks, worry truly starting to rise in his chest.  Lance can hardly wait for swim team each year.  Is the lackluster response just because of how distanced he's been or is there something seriously wrong?

“Uh.”  Lance stuffs his hands in the pockets of his shorts.  “Not… at all?  I mean, I just haven't… done it.”

Shiro takes a small step back to really look at Lance for the first time in a while.  He’s about five foot eight, just four inches shorter than Shiro himself, but most of his presence comes with the wide, enthusiastic stance he seems to unconsciously settle into.  Right now, the stance is nowhere in sight.  He looks so small hunched up, pulling one hand free to fiddle with the bracelets on his wrist. 

“Hey,” Shiro says softly, linking their elbows so that they can talk and still keep the others in view.  “Something eating you?”

He wasn’t sure exactly what he expected.  Lance could be the simplest person on the earth, driven by nothing but the desire to make noise, or he could be a tangled knot of emotional distress so snarled that even he couldn’t make sense of it, and it really just depended on the day.  Shiro has no idea what kind of day today is, especially when Lance just kind of shrugs, lost in thought.

“Do you not want to do swim team this year?” Shiro pushes.  Somewhere off to the side Hunk and Keith are pooling savings, bartering chores with each other.

Lance shakes his head a little, with a small attempt at a smile.  “I guess I’m just… not feeling it right now.  We’ll see.”

And right now… right now it’s excruciatingly obvious how much Shiro has changed as he adapted to having Keith in the House.  Before, he wouldn’t have hesitated to wrap an arm around Lance and drag him into a hug.  But Keith doesn’t like hugs, and he’s learned to be hesitant, and by the time he decides to go for it, Lance is walking away, saying, “Come on, just pick one already!  It’s a bike, not a pet dog!”

And Shiro feels bad.  He’s focused on Lance, he is, but he still has one eye trained on Keith.  And yes, it’s because he has to worry about the baby and because he needs to be ready if Keith has a panic attack, but it’s also because he catches the lift of Keith’s chin—the striking difference between now and how he stood five months ago with all his limbs tucked close, his chin down and his eyes up, daring anyone to say a word against him.  Ready to fight. 

“I’ll work thirty hours for free if you let us take her at half price,” Keith is saying, staring down Rolo’s Uncle Louie.  Louie counters.  Keith doesn't back down.  Watching them, Shiro knows that Keith is still ready to fight at a moment’s notice, but it's obvious how he also lets himself melt and stand at ease, rolling his head to the side to exaggerate the eye roll he has for Shiro when Shiro vetoes the ‘work for parts’ idea.  Shiro _likes_ seeing these little nuances to Keith.

But beside them, Lance unfocuses again, staring off somewhere in the distance.  There is something wrong, and now that Shiro is finally seeing it, he’s not sure how to _fix it_.

In the end, they pay half-price for a sweet red beauty that’s in dire need of repairs, and the only catch is that if they can get it running, they have to come back and help out with some of the other problem bikes in the way back.  They load it into a tarp in the back of the minivan as Keith watches with huge eyes and Lance offers nothing but half-hearted smiles.

 

* * *

 

 

Shiro doesn’t get a chance to look into it.  While Hunk and Keith are on the porch pulling the bike apart and Shiro is throwing together some semblance of an evening meal, he gets an email from Ulaz asking him to drop something off at his office. 

Shiro sighs as he packs up his bag.  He might get dragged into emergency grading, which is a pain, but what can you do?  The administration really is out to get Ulaz and Shiro is along for the ride.  The kids are content doing what they’re doing—it’s a Friday night, nothing can go wrong. 

Famous last words.

“Okay, Keith is in charge until I get back,” he says, on his way out the door.  He means it as a joke, seeing as Keith is the oldest who won’t peer pressure the rest of them into smoking a joint, but it’s immediate that something is off when Lance stiffens where he’s sitting.

“What—” he starts, but Keith cuts him off from the other side of the door.

“Why am I in charge?” he demands.  “What about Allura?”

Shiro sighs.  Vomit in the garbage disposal flashes before his eyes.  “Allura does not have permission to be in charge anymore.”

“Also, she says _‘do your homework’_ like other people say _‘look, some puppies!’_   You’re better off this way,” Hunk says, reaching for a wrench.

“It’s true,” Lance mutters darkly, grip tight on his 3DS.  “It’s like she wants to watch the world burn.”

Not the words Shiro would use, but okay.  He doesn’t have time to follow it up, though, he has to catch Ulaz before the grading system goes down for daily maintenance.  He gives Lance an odd look, but Lance is refusing to acknowledge him.  He leaves with his sixth sense prickling.

The task for Ulaz is completed with time to spare, but he’s barely through the front door when Keith grabs him by the elbow and drags him into the kitchen.

“I am _never_ ,” he hisses, “ _EVER_ , going to do that for you again.”

Taken aback, Shiro blinks down at him.  “Went that badly, did it?”  He really did not mean for it to be stressful—or serious.  They’re all old enough now to get by without babysitters.  He glances across the way at Pidge, who is sitting quietly at her laptop, the same as she always is.  There’s no one else around—the occupied bedroom doors are closed, and the hallway is silent.  What the hell even happened?

It seems as if Keith is already forgiving him, shaking out the shag of his bangs and scrubbing both hands up the inch-and-a-half-long fluff at the sides of his head that defies gravity.  He’s going to need a haircut soon, Shiro notes.  Like a deflating beach ball, he sighs out the tension, finally tilting his head back to meet Shiro’s eyes.  “You’re okay, though, right?” he asks, quiet.  His fingers lock behind his head as he sweeps Shiro with a critical eye.

“I drove straight to the university and back, buddy.  No stops, no accidents, not even a bug on the windshield.”  Shiro frowns.  “Is that what the problem was?  That I was out alone?”

Keith kind of cocks one shoulder, leaning back against the wall and closing his eyes.  “Lance was… in a mood, I guess.”

That doesn’t answer as many questions as he seems to think it does.  Shiro needs to know what kind of mess he’s about to step into.

After some prodding, Keith finally opens up.  They’re now sitting together at the table, nursing cups of Cuban horchata that Hunk must have made to try and ease Lance out of his funk.  “I don’t know what it was,” he says, quietly.  “He was… counting beds?  Like, he thought that if Pidge moved into my room then he would get kicked out of the House because I would take his bed.  And then he started saying you were probably going to get in a wreck and die and I would take _your_ bed and I just—I don’t know why we have to—"

He sucks in a deep breath, clamping down on his emotions so hard that his hands curl into fists.  He shoves them in his armpits, rocking forward.  “I don’t get it!” he bursts out.  “I don’t want to kick him out, if anyone’s gonna go it’s obviously me, right—?”

“Okay, it’s okay,” Shiro says, moving to put a hand on his shoulder.  He goes slowly, giving Keith enough warning to pull away if he needs to.  The muscle is taut under his hand, but Keith lets him start to rub in slow, rhythmic circles.  “Okay.  Today was a lot.  I think you guys just need a little space.  Do you want to sleep in the living room tonight?”

“Won’t Pidge be upset?” he asks, too quiet, nervous.  The poor kid.  Dealing with Lance when he doesn't know what's wrong is obviously throwing him for a loop.

“Nah.  She’s only grouchy if you wake her up.”  Shiro presses his hand to the back of Keith’s neck, feeling the knots there and the way Keith sort of winces without actually wincing.  He’s far enough along in the pregnancy that his back is probably starting to kill him.  Shiro wonders if anyone knows, if Keith has gone to any of them for a single one of his symptoms that is less than dire.  He looks a little more tired every day, even when he sleeps well, and Shiro is pretty sure the answer is ‘no’.

Though he does perk up a bit when Shiro drops him off with Pidge.  “Thanks for the bike,” he says, and Shiro raps his knuckles on the doorway with a grin before he ducks out.

His next stop is the Blue Room and Lance, who is lying in bed with Hunk sitting beside him, rubbing his back.

“I’m sorry, Shiro,” he says, miserable, when he hears the door open.  “My brain is doing a thing and I… can we not talk about it, maybe?”

Shiro hums in agreement, lying down on the edge of the bed and forcing Lance to wriggle away or get crushed.  “I guess I’ll remind you tomorrow to apologize to Keith, hm?”

Lance groans into his pillow.

With an expression that is the embodiment of concern, Hunk squeezes his shoulder.  “Hey… want me to make hot chocolate?” he asks, so worried that it’s making his nose pinch.  “I know you already had horchata, but maybe—”

“I don’t need hot chocolate!” Lance snaps, then smacks the mattress, irritated at his own irritability.  He drags the blanket over his head, making inarticulate noises of frustration.  It’s clear they’re mostly at himself.  Hunk rubs at some sticky oil on his wrist, pretending not to feel hurt by the sharp words.

Shiro locks eyes with Hunk and jerks his head to the side.  ‘Go’ he mouths, and with one last look at Lance, Hunk slinks out to go make some hot chocolate anyway.

Now that they’re alone, Shiro rolls over and props his head on his hand, giving Lance a little shove on the shoulder.  “Hey, just listen for a sec, alright?”

Another groan, but less forceful this time.  Lance doesn’t emerge.  Shiro didn’t expect him to.  He understands this—he really does.  He’s been taking care of Lance for _six years_ now.  A malcontent, depressed Lance is a Lance who needs affection and affirmations, and the more he fights it the worse he feels and the more he resists.  He’s self-destructive like that—it’s something that he and Keith have in common.

Shiro takes the groaning as permission to continue.  “You can ask for space if you need it.  We’re not going to kick you out just for having a bad few days.”

“I don’t need space,” he says, directly into the mattress. 

Shiro snorts.  “Yeah, I’m not buying that,” he says.  He sits up, bouncing Lance a little.  “I promise, bud, Keith isn’t going to get mad if you ask him to leave you alone for a bit.  It’s better in the long run if you learn how to tell him that instead of chewing on him.”

A sniffle.  “I know.”

“Alright.”  For a moment the two of them just occupy the bed in silence.  Lance snakes an arm out to grab the stuffed koala that sits in the corner.  Shiro rests his chin on his hand and considers things.  They both seem to have words that they aren’t sure how to say.  And… Shiro really doesn’t want this to be it.  He doesn’t want to end the night with nothing but a tentative cease-fire.  He wants Lance and his unbreakable personality, he wants the relationship they used to have, he wants it to be so having Keith here doesn’t change the fact that Lance was the first real foster kid who came to the House, the first one he and Allura opened their arms to.  He feels nostalgia lurch in his chest.

So he rises to his feet and tugs on Lance’s elbow until the kid turns to look at him with red-rimmed eyes.  “Hey, you want to sleep with me tonight?”

Lance cracks a smile.  “Only if you carry me,” he says, with a doleful sort of twist to his lips, and holds out his arms.  Mary the Koala stays in his hand, her scuffed plastic eyes looking at them like she hardly dares to hope.

Jokes on him, Shiro is ready for the long haul.  He heaves Lance into his arms, stuffed animal and all, and only stumbles once.  Hunk, having predicted this, dropped the mugs off in the Black Room and is waiting in the hall for them, eyes wide, just in case they wipe out.  After a little shifting and resigning himself to the fact that the harness of his prosthesis is going to cut into his neck no matter what he does, Shiro gets Lance out the door and down the hall.  It would be just like old times, honestly, if Lance hadn’t grown an entire foot in the intervening years and said ‘motherfucker!’ when Shiro accidentally hit his head on the bedside lamp.

Six years hasn’t changed the way Lance curls up under his good arm, his stuffed koala clutched to his chest, though.  They still have that, at least.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am trying hard to find an update schedule that works for me, I promise you this. In the meantime, feel free to comment! I get back to those pretty fast!
> 
> Cheers.


	22. If Weeks Were Years, It Would Be Time to Get Drunk and Celebrate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shiro's horoscope foretells big changes, the family watches Meet the Robinsons, and Lance gets a hug he wasn't ready for.

6:29am.  Saturday October 7th, 2017. 

_Pisces:_

_“Your imagination is heightened today, which is why this is a great day for writers, poets and artists. But even in your everyday activities, you might see an entirely new approach to something or a new way of doing things.”_

Yeah, okay there, National Post.  If you say so.  Shiro resists the urge to roll his eyes.  The only way his imagination is heightened right now is imagining every single way today can go badly.  He’s been planning this for weeks now, and that’s a conservative estimate.  It’s more like months, probably.  Years.  A lifetime.   _New way of doing things_ , though…

Hm.  Not good enough.  He needs a second opinion.

_“The Moon in Taurus helps you communicate something you've been having a hard time putting into words. This evening finds you connecting with powerful people.”_

Well, that sure sounds more promising.  That one comes from… he double checks the URL.  Vice?  Aw, shit, is he really stooping low enough to get his horoscope information from Vice?  It’s bad enough that he has enough anxiety sweat to be snooping around at his horoscope at six in the morning.  He exits the tab with a sniff, and soon follows it up by turning off the entire laptop.  He’s up way too early.

 

8:43am.

_[The Agency] to_ _shirothehero@aol.com_

_Subject: RE: The Paperwork_

_Body: Of course!  We can bring it by during our scheduled visit this Saturday.  If everything goes well and we get all the signatures, the only thing left for you to do will be to pop into city hall to make it official.  At that point, all of your case files will go to me for the final three follow-ups, and you’ll be on the home stretch!  Truly, Shiro, I think I speak for all of us when I say we’re rooting for you._

Shiro isn’t so much reading the email for the thousandth time as he is letting it imprint directly on his striatum for easier recall.  His phone whines, letting him know that it is desperately in need of a new battery.  Nine percent and it’s only… 8:57.  8:57 on a Saturday morning.

God, today is going to be such a long day.

 

11:25am. 

It’s the teenage equivalent of morning, and in order to keep it under wraps for just that much longer, Shiro is tamping down an excruciating urge to clean every inch of the entire house.  No one has yet caught on to his twitching fingertips, mostly because he and Keith are the only ones really awake. 

He will not be able to keep it from Keith for long.  If the kid so much as looks at him the wrong way he’s going to spill like a glass of water balanced on a seesaw.  43 negotiation texts with Allura burn at him.  Why the hell did he ever promise to keep this a secret until the eleventh hour?  So that she would help with the emotional fallout during dinner?  It doesn’t feel worth it.

 

11:28am.

No.  No, definitely worth it.  He needs her.  He needs her so bad.

 

1:42pm.

Everyone is eerily silent, and he doesn’t know why.  It’s a very rare occurrence when the kids decide to break out the groupchat instead of just yelling at each other.  There are only three reasons they do it. 

  1. Someone is having a low-volume day and needs the quiet.
  2. They need to keep Allura in the loop and don’t feel like screaming through her door.
  3. There are secrets involved.



Several minutes into pretending to read _The Big Book of Birth_ , Shiro hears a put-upon sigh and surreptitiously watches Hunk get up to go count the cash in his wallet.  They’re betting.  But on what?

He catches Keith’s eye from across the way and squints at him, hoping to intimidate him into giving away the game.  Keith screws his mouth shut and raises an eyebrow at him.  The look says _if you tell me your secret I’ll tell you mine_.

Touché.

 

3:06pm.

He and Keith are late for a haircut.  They have made zero headway against each other.  Shiro fears they are perfectly matched in stubbornness.  For Shiro, at least, it’s partly to keep his contract with Allura from becoming null and void.  He doesn’t know what Keith’s angle is.  He fears from the tension in Keith’s jaw that he’ll never know. 

 

3:49pm.

The urge to clean.  He can’t hold it in any longer.  The moment they get home, Shiro rallies the kids with a set of hyper-specific instructions that begin and end with the fact that The People are coming to check on them tonight, and the whole lot of them are to act like _anyone but themselves_ or _else_.  They are not going to fuck this up with their usual antics so _help him_. 

“Focus, everyone!  Let’s _do this_!” he barks, and everyone immediately falls apart.  Mice are frantically counted, money exchanges hands, and above the din can be heard the mournful call of ‘ _NUTS THE HAM ISN’T DONE THAWING YET._ ’

Shiro monitors the commotion as Pidge shoves all her projects into a blanket, scoops it up, and dumps it in Allura’s room.  She zaps Lance on her way back, applying her shock ring to get him out of her way when he doesn’t move fast enough, and Shiro takes that as his initiative to confiscate the ring and hide it for the night.  At a Look, Allura peels herself off the couch to earn her chicken nuggets, joining the fray, which leaves just one last figure yet to get to it.  Keith has a twitch to his face like his instincts are kicking in.  He watches suspiciously as Lance stuffs old mail between the couch cushions and Pidge tidies in harried circles around his feet.  Shiro can practically see him putting the pieces together.

At least they work well under pressure.  Sort of.  Shiro is banking on ‘sort of’ getting them ‘clean enough’ because the nerves are really starting to kick in now.  Hunk wails from the kitchen.  Lance barks a curse.  Chaos reigns. 

 

4:12pm.

“Who are the people, again?” Keith asks the room, frowning.

“God, it’s _The People_ , Keith, get with the program," Pidge scoffs. 

“By ‘The People’ he means the social workers,” Allura adds, gum popping,

Keith only frowns harder.  “They come, like, every three weeks.  I’ve literally never seen you guys clean like this.”

“It’s because The People are bringing The Paperwork tonight,” Lance says solemnly, and damn it all, how does Lance know state secrets?  Did Allura spill everything?  Couldn’t be, her McNuggets are on the line.  No one else was in on it, though, aside from Coran.

“Who told you that?” Shiro demands.  Lance scampers off before he can get an answer.  Shiro turns to Pidge, who only gives him a wide, innocent smile.

So it was her doing, then.  He should have known.  These kids are too damn smart for their own good, it’s actually impossible to keep anything a secret.  The plan was doomed to fail from the start.  Fuck it.

Besides, they might have figured out the secret, but do they truly understand?  He thinks not.

 

4:37pm.

Why did he cut it so close with the cleaning.  _Why.  Why.  Why_.

 

5:34pm.

After a struggle of such length and fortitude that it will thrive forever in the annals of history, the hour arrives.  Miraculously, the House is 90% clean when Coran pops his head in with their guests, twirling his moustache.  Dinner is ready, too.  Back pats all around.

Hunk has a streak of paprika on his face and is smiling too tensely to notice Lance licking his finger to rub it off, but no one comments on it.  They all cram into the dining room, extra chairs from the garage pushed up to the table, the entire tablecloth covered in plates and platters full of everything that Hunk could possibly fit.  If the social workers notice anything weird, like the barbie hand sticking out from under the oven, they’re kind enough not to mention that, either. 

Shiro is nearly vibrating as he takes his first bite, resolutely ignoring the way Coran is watching him from the corner of his eye.  Allura seems to be bracing herself.  The three youngest have their phones out under the table.  The social workers are hiding smiles.

The only one who’s frowning is Keith.  He’s still twitchy, confusion drawing his eyebrows together in a look that’s a tad murkier than his normal resting face.  Maybe they should have qualified what The Paperwork is because he doesn’t look like he’s _getting it_ yet. 

When social worker #1 officially brings it up a moment later, Shiro sees the moment that he _gets it_.  His head whips over, mouth falling open.  Comprehension, full and undeniable, all the way across the board.

 

5:39pm.

Keith pushes back from the table mid-serving and walks out.

 

5:40pm.

Everyone is silent.  Shiro stares after him, slack-jawed.  Allura musters up a smile when social worker #2 turns to her, asking if he’s okay.  Hunk laughs nervously.  Coran excuses himself from the table to follow, holding his liquor glass aloft.

 

5:43pm.

Coran leads the kid back in, who is covering his face.  The confusion clears up instantly—he’s like two seconds away from bursting into some serious sobs.  “You’re not kidding around?  It’s really happening?” he asks, bringing his hands down to press to his mouth.

“Yeah, buddy,” Shiro says, standing up to rub his back like he’s started to do when Pidge tells him that Keith needs backrubs but is too stubborn to admit it.

“Guys, we’re— _I’m_ —”  He sniffles, his hands falling away to reveal a smile that’s cracking his face in two.  “ _I’m getting adopted_ ,” he finally manages to whisper, and Shiro can feel his shoulders shaking as he’s completely overwhelmed.

 

5:44pm.

Shiro opens his arms for a hug.  Hunk scoops Pidge and Lance into his grip, his lower lip wobbling menacingly.  Pidge is already sniffling.  Lance tries for all he’s worth to insist that he isn’t having emotions, it’s just _all the dust_ in their currently spotless kitchen, which prompts Coran to heave an exaggerated sob.  “Oh, it’s _filthy_!” he wails, and then they’re both off.  Allura sits to the side with the social workers, rolling her eyes right up until Coran lifts her into an embrace and she’s forced to join in.

Shiro can’t help it when he starts to rock Keith side to side, nose tucked against his hair.  These kids are going to be _his_.  Fucking finally.

 

7:32pm.

Somehow, Shiro manages to convince Coran to put off the traditional ‘I’ve been in foster care for X days and today I got adopted!’ pics for the agency.  It’s going to come back to bite him in the ass when everything gets finalized, but hey.  Any delay in Coran’s picture-taking fervor is a blessing.  Coran isn’t kidding around when he says that Shiro’s little gap-toothed smile haunted nearly every social work/foster care pamphlet that was in circulation from ’93 to ‘01.  His own ‘today I got adopted!’ picture is still hanging in the hall of their office, and Coran delights in pointing it out every time they’re out there volunteering.  972 days—that’s what his own pic says.  Just a little under three years.

Shiro almost laughs at the thought of how many days they would have to write in for some of these kids.  Keith alone has been in foster care for nine years—that’s like, three thousand days.  The cutesy pictures aren’t meant for rough-around-the-edges teenagers with records rife with violence who entered the system older than most people are willing to adopt.

Oh, damn it all to hell, now he’s made himself sad.  Good going, Shiro.  It’s not like the six-year-olds who spent two years at one placement before adoption are the only kind out there.  Sure, they may be the faces that inspire families to foster, but the less photogenic kids deserve to get adopted, too.  Most of the kids Shiro has worked with had significant trouble in the system one way or another… they can’t help the fact that it’s taken this long to find a permanent home.  Some of the kids he’s taken in short-term _haven’t_ found a permanent home yet. 

His eyes prickle.  He has to stop shoving dishes in the dishwasher to scrub at them, twisting up his face.  He’s not going to cry.  The process isn’t even finalized yet, he’s _not going to cry_. 

Fuck, who is he kidding?  He ducks past Hunk into the hallway to make sure his tears are at least somewhat private.

 

7:41pm.

“Hey,” Shiro says, ducking into Allura’s room.  He ignores her snarky comment about how sometimes it feels like she’s ‘ _living in a soap opera_ ’ and sinks onto her bed, beside her flashing phone.  _Hardy-har, soap opera_ —he ignores the affronted look she gives him as he encroaches on her bubble.  She stayed at dinner for the minimum time requirement; she’ll get her nuggets.  If the complaining keeps up, though, he’ll have to pull out addendum #6, which states that ‘negative sentiments are to be thought and not spoken for at least one (1) calendar day following event or reward will be revoked.’

For a long moment, they just sit there, side by side, listening to her phone chime.  Shiro lets his core relax for the first time since waking up three hours before his alarm.  Against all odds, today went well.  If Allura really wanted to put up a fuss, she would have done it.  She’s not quiet about her dissent.  No dissent=approval=at least 30% higher probability that everything will work out fine.

 

8:04pm.

In the living room, he encounters Pidge sitting cross-legged on the couch, Keith fast asleep with his head on her lap.  He’s curled up on his side, serene, even as Pidge types on the laptop perched on his hips and tummy.  Lance is laying on the floor beside them, Hunk sitting on the armchair with a book in one hand and his phone in the other.  It’s dead silent and a little eerie.

Then Pidge hits enter and four devices ping with notifications, including Allura’s down the hall.  Keith’s buzzes somewhere on the couch.  “Oh hey, Shiro,” Pidge says, voice low, as another round of notifs go off.  Keith shifts a little in his sleep, and she automatically reaches to steady the laptop.  She grins.  “He was so _happy_ —I’ve never seen him get so excited, not even about the motorcycle.”

“Yeah,” Lance says, rolling over so he can look at Shiro without lifting his head.  His cracked phone rests on his chest, blinking impatiently.  Lance doesn’t seem to notice.  He’s too busy making a face, his eyes crossed and his lip turned up.  “It was stupidly cute.  Ugh.  I hate him so much.”

“Hate him like a brother?” Hunk asks, popping his head up from behind his book with a cheeky smile.  Pidge is typing again, blurs of fingers over her keyboard punctuated by emphatic taps of the enter button and more notification noises.

“Yeah,” Lance says, breaking out into a soft, tired grin.  “It’s been a while since I had a brother.  Or a sister.  I’ve missed it.”

And then, with little warning, big fat tears start to roll down his face.

 

8:05pm.

Shiro swallows heavily a few times, trying not to follow suit. 

 

8:05pm + ~15 seconds.

Shiro is weak because seeing Lance cry is the tear duct equivalent of watching someone yawn.  Resistance is futile.  He’s gone. 

“I’ll get popcorn,” Hunk says, patting Shiro on the back on the way past, eyes on the message he’s swiping out with one thumb.  “We’re gonna watch _Meet the Robinsons_.  That’s what the keysmash meant, right Lance?”

Lance can only nod between congested sniffles.

 

9:58pm.

The credits roll.  Shiro is tired and his eyes are puffy but he feels more emotionally stable than he has all day.  He’s sitting on the floor between Lance and Hunk, an arm around each of them.  Everyone’s phones are on silent now except Keith’s, which buzzed almost constantly against the couch for all one hundred and forty-two minutes of the movie.  Shiro doesn’t even care.  The warmth on either side of him plus the steady hum at his back nearly put him to sleep at least three times, and he’s not sure if he can make it to bed.

Right up until Lance shoves him, impatient.  He groans.  Ugh, message received.  It takes a moment, but he manages to climb to his feet, giving Lance access to the couch.  The kid leans ominously over Pidge’s lap, where Keith’s head is still lying.  Apparently exhausted, Keith managed to sleep through the entire movie, which is an incredibly huge no-no in Lance’s book.  The standard punishment is a wet-willy.  Like a public execution, Shiro feels obligated to watch. 

What Lance does instead is prod Keith in the shoulder blade, not exactly gentle but not hard enough to leave a mark, waking him with a start.  Pidge screeches and grabs for her laptop to stop it from crashing to the floor.  Before either of them can protest, Lance is hauling Keith off the couch, voice thick as he says, “Go change into your fucking PJs, we’re having a sleepover.”

“I thought you wanted space?” Keith asks, scrubbing at his eyes.  His phone goes off and he pulls it out, bewildered at the avalanche of notifications. 

“I did!  I do!  But now I want spooning from someone who isn’t gonna snore right in my ear canal when he falls asleep next to me!  This is not a difficult concept!” 

Shiro tries not to feel offended.

 

10:22pm.

Somewhere between the Red Room and the Blue Room, Lance decides he has something he wants to announce.  Shiro stumbles as Lance gets a grip on his elbow, dragging him into Allura’s room.  In a few seconds flat Lance has them all in a rather pitiful looking huddle.  Like he’s conducting the world’s worst orchestra, he raises both hands in front of him and tells everyone to listen carefully.

Everyone nods.

“I’m serious, pay attention.”

Everyone leans in.

“I really am only going to say this once.”

Everyone waits.

“I…  Okay, look, I’m…  _We’re_ …”

Everyone continues to wait. 

…And still, naught comes out.  Lance’s open mouth offers nothing.  He’s gaping like a fish, now.

Everyone trades confused looks.  It’s getting awkward.  Lance pinches his face like he’s constipated, which drags a snicker out of Allura.  Shiro winces in sympathy.  After a long, uncomfortable moment, Hunk pats the poor kid on the back, saying, “It’s okay, buddy, just let it out.”

“I’m trying!” Lance snaps.  “It’s just been a long time since I… you know… ugh, this is stupid, just _forget it_.”

 

10:31pm.

Lance closes his eyes, pivots toward the door, and starts the walk of shame.  Overtly concerned, Shiro calculates how many servings of hot chocolate they have in the tin right now and if there’s enough for an all-house vigil.  At least, he starts to.  Right up until his world really, truly turns upside down.  He thought a dinner with the social workers and Official Adoption Paperwork was emotional upheaval?  Well think again, because he planned for waterworks and animated G-rated movies and McNugget deals but he couldn’t plan for the singularity that is _Keith_.

Because it’s at this moment that Keith finally seems to wake up.  Full consciousness, eyes all the way open, mind 100% operational.  And then he _moves_.  For a wild second, Shiro flashes back to Keith’s second week here, his first bad panic attack in front of the whole family, when he punched Lance right in the fucking jaw.  He feels his heart soar up his throat, desperately trying to figure out what the trigger was, only to watch, mystified, as Keith’s sudden lunge evolves into one arm wrapped around Lance’s chest, halting him before he even finishes the pivot.  Like the burn of instinct is lighting a guiding fire inside him, only now instead of inciting suspicion, it’s brought pure motion up from somewhere deep inside of him. 

Right in front of everyone, Keith pulls Lance into a slow, tentative hug that proceeds to blow everyone’s collective mind.  Keith, whose tender heart is hidden behind six layers of emotional subterfuge that’s intentional enough to be artful.  Keith, spitfire, made of heat and fierce determination.  Keith, who doesn’t Do physical contact. 

…They _broke him_. 

 

10:34pm.

When he pulls back, his smile—small and aimed at Lance—is so soft that Shiro wants to cry for the ten millionth time, emotional stability be screwed.  He’s got no idea what’s happening anymore.  Like he ever did.

“The hell was that?” Lance asks, thunderstruck.

“You were trying to say that we’re family, right?” Keith responds, simple and concise.  His smile starts to fall as he takes in Lance’s face (shell-shocked), his tone (stunned), and the way that everyone is staring at the two of them with varying flavors of incomprehension.  He steps back, hands dropping.  “Was that… I misread the moment, didn’t I.”

Their response is just a moment of silence, but that moment is enough.  Keith withdraws from the cluster, looking down and away, his face closing off.  “Sorry.  Blame the hormones.  I’ll leave.”

 

10:35pm.

He does not leave.  Allura, of all people, refuses to let him go.  “Don’t you _dare_ ,” she says.

He tries to tell her it’s okay, that she doesn’t have to do this, but the words are barely out of his mouth when she turns to lay a frozen, searing glare on the rest of them.  Shiro tries to calculate the probability that he’s in an alternate universe.  The odds aren’t good.

“You assholes became my family a long time ago, so _do not_ —” she stares at each of them in turn “—think you can invade my room to be gross and affectionate and then forget the affectionate part.  Hug, _now_.”

 

10:36pm.

It’s… it’s bad.  Just bad.  They’re so _stiff_.  Just shy of rigid, like they’re both hyperaware of what they’re doing now.  Until, that is, Hunk arrives.

For the first time ever, Keith seems happy to be right smack in the middle.

 

11:11pm.

They’re all crammed into Shiro’s bed, Shiro at the center and Keith on the edge closest to the door, everyone else piled on top of each other.  The mass of bodies is bound to overheat in about two point four minutes, Shiro just realized that he’s going to have to displace literally everyone to get his prosthesis off, and the light of Allura’s phone will likely encourage Pidge to throw the poor thing across the room at some point during the night, but it’s good.  It’s better than good.  Shiro lets himself drift for just a moment until he hears Keith lean over to Lance to whisper, “I’m sorry if I freaked you out when I… you know.  It’s just—I haven’t had a real family in a long time and I thought maybe, um, you… felt the same or something.  So, sorry.” 

“ _Sorry_?” Lance asks.  He’s fighting a smile, it’s clear in his voice.  “You won’t apologize for knocking my figurines off the shelf, but you’ll say sorry for a _hug_?  Dude, that’s fucked up.”

“Oh, suck a dick, Mr. Can’t-decide-if-he-wants-space-or-not,” Keith says.  A moment later he shuffles again.  “I didn’t jinx anything by saying that, right?  Because I mean… I like this.”

Lance whines, nuzzling into the comforter.  He holds onto Keith’s sleeve, shaking him back and forth slightly, sniffing.  His voice is wonky when he speaks again.  “Nah,” he says.  “Don’t worry, you got it. _You got it_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OTL forgive me. I was so washy about this chapter because it's so important but I think I finally got it right! I have so much content that I just cut out because I was making it too long and drawn out so if you want to see some of that... let me know. I could make an extra little chatfic just with the groupchat convos honestly.


	23. Week Twenty-Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shiro visits hell, Keith catches a dodgy bug, and something ominous is on the horizon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has a vomit warning!

They make quite a pair, he and Keith.  Family (Shiro still gets a swing of giddiness in his stomach thinking that— _family_ ) or not, in the vast chasm of simmering judgment that is the main hallway of a public high school, they stick out like a pair of… well, a pair of East Asian weirdos, complete with robot arm and impending baby, respectively.  Shiro isn’t missing the side-eyes and whispers coming from the nosy, disrespectful swarm of students surrounding them.

He hated public school when he attended it, and he hates it just as much now that he’s aged a decade past it.  Public school is _awful_.

Why the torment, you ask?  The answer to that would be _IEP discussions_.  Three of them, to be exact.  Shiro tries not to visibly shudder.  It’s probably bad that Independent Education Planning days make him miss Allura and her perfect grades, seeing as those grades caused a meltdown last year that’s thrown her into a funk she now can’t surface from, but he can’t help it.  The only thing keeping him going is Hunk, a literal ray of sunshine when it comes to school and the least likely to follow in Allura’s footsteps and do whatever it is that she’s currently doing.  Hooray for Hunk, honestly.  Thank fuck Hunk is a culinary genius because he’s the basket holding all of Shiro’s eggs right now.

Glorified parent-teacher conferences… this is the _worst_.  In the past few years, he and the school have come to an… understanding.  The basics are as follows: make sure the kids are given the right accommodations, or Shiro will sic Coran on the administration.  There haven’t been any real issues since the first—and last—time that happened.  It affords him some breathing room when he has to deal with the whole mess.  Which is all well and good, except he’s two meetings down the checklist, it’s now one-thirty on a Wednesday afternoon, and he and Keith are still waiting for the school staff to get it together and invite them into the conference room for the third one, which was supposed to start at one PM sharp.

Shiro rubs the scar on his nose, eyes closed.  It doesn’t block out the noise.  He’ll take college kids over high schoolers any day—college kids are too tired to be this petty, nor this LOUD about it.  Keith, beside him, is scowling into the distance, staunchly refusing to meet the stares aimed in his direction.  His self-restraint is admirable.  Shiro suddenly understands something about the haughty, distanced attitude that Keith wore like a cloak when they first met, which is that it’s actually _incredibly_ effective. 

So effective, in fact, that neither of them see Lance until he walks most of the way past, stops in his tracks, spins, and marches right back.  “Stand up straight!” he barks, and, startled, Keith does.  Shiro opens his eyes, frowning.  Lance stands directly in front of Keith, squinting like he’s looking into the sun, before he scoffs.  “This is bullshit.  How the hell are you growing?  Shouldn’t the baby be eating all your extra calories?”

“What?” Keith asks, his voice flat.

Lance, instead of answering, just swipes a hand from the top of his head over Keith’s hair, exposing the fact that there is only an inch or so difference between them when there used to be three.

Keith blinks.  Then, as understanding comes, he slowly starts to grin.  “Is there a problem?” he asks, coyly. 

“You know very well there is!” Lance snarls.  “You’re coming for my number!  You better watch the fuck out, man.”  And with a hiss and a forked ‘I’m watching you’ finger gesture, he twists and continues on his way. 

Shiro almost snorts.  The numbers aren’t sacred—in fact, it’s beginning to look like Hunk will overtake Shiro for the Number One slot, bumping Allura down to Number Three.  Still, Keith looks inordinately pleased with himself as they finally _finally_ get called in.  At least Lance can get a smile out of him, even in the midst of this hellhole.

Which is good because the facilitator barely has the paperwork they need and the other teacher who was supposed to show is apparently running late and you know what… scheduling all three of these in one two-hour time slot was a pretty bad idea all around.  Damnit, Shiro.  Do better next time.  He's at least well-versed in education planning and he feels qualified to understand the jargon even after thoroughly frying his brain—his job as a college TA hasn’t taught him nothing, after all.  Or is that a double negative?  It has taught him anything?  Do you want the double negative in this case?  No, no, he’s not doing this again.  This is a rabbit hole he doesn’t want to go down and he can ask his slightly _more_ qualified boss later.

At the end of the meeting, both of the teachers stand up and the woman goes to shake hands with them.  He can literally see the moment when she realizes the hand he’s holding out is a prosthesis, and he wishes retroactively that he’d actually died in that car wreck so he wouldn’t be here, right now, dealing with this. 

He knows God is listening, and that He finds this all very amusing, by the way she says, “Oh!  Thank you for your service!” and gives it a few extra pumps.

Shiro awkwardly smiles back, choosing not to mention the fact that he was only in the reserves.  At the moment, he doesn’t care about the irony of joining the military and then losing his arm in a car wreck two miles from his house.  He just wants to get out of here.  Thank god this is over—he’s looking forward to never having to come back to this place.  Like the boys, and Allura before them, Shiro spent his final year of high school trudging through these halls.  It may not be today… it may not be tomorrow… but one day, he will finally be free.

 

* * *

 

 

Today is really, _really_ not the day.  He’s sitting with a coworker a little over an hour later, looking at pictures of her cat while pretending to do menial mental labor, when he receives the summons.  Your kid is in the nurse’s office and needs to be taken home, they tell him.  What the duck happened, he asks, slightly annoyed but also now really anxious.  Keith is sick and can’t stay here, they say, and that’s the end of the conversation.  Shiro barely has time to snatch his coat from the rack while he runs out the door.

Why did it have to be Keith?  For Hunk, puking is fairly normal (shaky videos give him vertigo), and with Lance, there’s a fifty/fifty chance that he’s just faking to get out of a test he’s unprepared for.  But Keith?  Keith could honest to god be dying, maybe.  Or the Little Alien!  God, something’s wrong with the Little Alien, he’s miscarrying and probably in incredible amounts of pain, this is cosmic retribution for the adoption papers and they’re paying in vomit, oh god, oh _god, focus on the road, Shiro, before you wrap yourself around a pole for god’s sake_ —

When he gets there, the nurse directs him towards the back of her office, where he finds not just Keith but also Lance, the former using the latter as a pillow.  Shiro has had the entire drive back to Hellhole™ to work himself up into a panic—it’s only slightly calmed by the fact that Keith, now wearing an awful AHS pride shirt with Lance’s jacket pulled over top, perks up a bit as he comes over and shows no visible signs of pain, alarming amounts or otherwise.

Belatedly Shiro remembers that he saw Keith, like, ninety minutes ago.  The kid might have been a little spacey, but that was it.  Obviously, it’s not too serious. 

He still feels the edges of panic as he says, “I’m here to take you home,” letting a frown drag his mouth down as he plants a hand on Keith’s forehead.  The kid is warm.  Not frighteningly so—just enough to indicate a slight fever.  There’s an empty basin sitting next to them on the cot.  “What happened?  Were you feeling bad when I saw you earlier?”

Lance is quick to spill the story, from Lance-perspective.  Something something he was visiting his favorite nurse (read: taking a break from classes before he got worked up into a meltdown) when he discovered Keith sitting back here and swooped in for a heroic rescue, despite the fact that he actually did nothing but run and fetch his jacket so Keith was slightly less cold.  Shiro tunes out most of the embellishments, focusing on the pertinent details.  Like how Keith was having a panic attack and threw up out of nowhere.  He doesn’t say what happened between the IEP and the puking to cause a panic attack, but Shiro decides not to push.  He’s been managing them pretty well on his own, recently.  Coping mechanisms for the win.

They apparently do not extend to managing the intersection of mental health and Hellhole™ germs, though.  “It hit kinda suddenly,” Keith says as he gets up, discretely hanging onto Shiro’s prosthetic arm, shaky.  His face is exceptionally pale as they start walking toward the front office—maybe from the panic attack, maybe from the puking, maybe from something else altogether.  Lance hovers just behind him, ready to jump in with the little plastic basin that he blatantly just stole from the nurse.  This is the thirteenth one he’s nicked in the last two years.  If Lance didn’t have such a good rapport with school staff, Shiro is sure that they’d be chasing the family (family!!) down right now, demanding that they cease and desist.

Catching his look, Lance hugs the basin and pouts.  “I’m gonna return them!” he says, petulant.  He then mutters something about returning stolen softballs, too, and Shiro rolls his eyes to the front to focus on keeping Keith steady. 

The moment they turn the last corner, Shiro spots two impatient figures waiting.  Pidge’s sharp eyes zero in on them the instant they’re in range, fingers audibly tapping on her phone.  “Oh, thank god!” Hunk says from her side, grabbing her by one elbow and dragging her along as he closes the last of the distance between them.  He makes an aborted gesture like he wants to hug Keith but also wants to stay as far away from possible vomit as is humanly conceivable.  His answer is to half-crouch behind Pidge, staring with huge eyes, and shove her forward in his stead.

“Took you long enough,” Pidge says, a pout on her face.  “I got a ping from the nurse’s office, like, an hour ago.”

From behind her, Hunk’s horrified voice asks, “What if he was dying?  He would be dead!”

“He’s not dying.  He’ll be perfectly fine, and you all should be in class,” Shiro says like he’s not a huge ol’ hypocrite.

“Why would I do that when I can just hack the grade book?” Pidge asks.  Shiro gives her a dirty look as he leaves Keith leaning on Lance’s shoulder and goes to sign him out.  Aaand there he discovers that Allura, the traitor, has already signed _everyone_ out.  Fine.  At least they didn’t take Keith and run for it.  He can pretend for a while longer that being their legal guardian and soon-to-be-adoptive father is more than a formality.

Still.  There are several things, and they need to be said.  “Pidge, _stop_ hacking into their systems.  They barely get paid anything, don’t make their jobs harder.”

“I could do your job better than you and you know it,” she mutters, and the sad thing is it’s probably true.  Without further ado, she claims the front passenger seat of the minivan, which Allura has idling in the pickup lane.  Shiro resists an eye roll, instead focusing on getting Keith settled in the truck.  He triple-checks that everyone is good before he starts the engine.

The first thing he does when they get home, after ensuring that everyone is occupied with home remedies and/or searching the medicine cabinet for Pepto, is call the doctor.  Because no matter how many times he tries to convince himself and the kids that no one is dying, there’s still a little voice in his head that insists they are.  All of them.  Every single one of them, in mortal peril, no exceptions.

The doctor, fortunately, reminds him that common viruses don’t usually cause great alarm, even in pregnant teens.  That they should only come to urgent care if Keith’s fever spikes or he can’t keep liquids down.  “You’ve got this, Shiro,” the plastic phone voice tells him.

Yeah.  He’s got it.  Unless he doesn’t.  But the voice thinks he does, so he hangs up and steels himself for a night of barely contained paranoia.

 

* * *

 

 

The evening is tamer than he expects.  Keith throws up once more, but he gets it in the toilet and later keeps down enough soup and weird Gatorade from the closet stash that Shiro starts to relax.  The kid falls asleep on the living room couch with his head on Pidge’s lap again, and Lance’s stack of stolen basins waiting just in case.  When Shiro tries to wake him to get him to bed, he groans into Pidge’s knees.  It takes a few minutes to convince him to allow Shiro to pick him up and carry him down the hall, but eventually, he does, and Shiro marks it down as a big win on his internal scorecard.  Everything is going to be fine.

When Shiro wakes up sometime in the middle of the night with a weight on his chest, he contemplates the merits and disadvantages of being a person whose primary talent in life is _speaking too soon_.  He could take a job as an oracle, probably.  Have a slogan that tells people to completely disregard what he says because the exact opposite will always happen in five hours’ time or your money back.  Like Cassandra, but _Better Call Saul_ style. 

“What is it, what went wrong?” he asks the Lance-sized weight sitting on his diaphragm, groggy.  There’s an odd, cloying smell on the air, a clue that could guide him to the source of his misery, but he’s too out of it to follow the scent.  Though why he _would_ follow it he’s not quite clear.  Is that an idiom, or is it just common knowledge that dogs can do that?  In this scenario are humans the dogs?  Doesn’t sound right somehow.  He’s very tired.  He wants to ask Ulaz what the answer is but suspects it would be something along the lines of "get a better sleep schedule".

Lance lets out a noise like the human ( _definitely_ not a dog) equivalent of a snare drum being rattled.  “Wrong?  Why would you assume something’s wrong?  I’m a shoo-in for Most Competent Person in the yearbook this year, nothing goes wrong while I’m around.   Eeexcept for maybe the fact that Keith threw up in bed and now I’m hanging out here with you because it’s the grossest thing I’ve ever seen in my entire seventeen-year lifespan?”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Shiro shoots up, knocking Lance askew.  “He’s throwing up and you left him with _Hunk_?”

“What?!  No!  What do you think I am, stupid?!  I went and got Pidge first.”  Lance grins.  “See?  Completely competen—hey, where are you going?  She’s got this!  She can handle it!  Wait, no, don’t leave me, I don’t want to be alone with my cowardice!  Shiro!  _Shi_ —”

Shiro closes his bedroom door on the way out, leaving Lance alone in the darkness to contemplate his guilt. 

By the time he takes the two steps to the boys’ room, he’s officially awake enough to remember what vomit smells like and connect the dots, no canines required.  Goddamnit, Lance probably tracked it into the Black Room, too, he realizes as he walks in.  Peachy.  He finds Keith sitting on the floor with his head in a trash can while Pidge angrily strips Lance’s bed.  Hunk is scandalously absent.

“Is everything okay?  What do you guys need?” Shiro asks.

Pidge grunts.  “Why the fuck aren’t these sheets made of easily sponge-able plastic?  This is a fucking _mess_.”

For a moment that has Shiro stumped.  Then he remembers that that isn’t a common household thing, and also that Keith is sitting on the floor with his head in the trash, which takes priority here.  “Hey,” he says softly, crouching down.  “How are you doing?”

Keith groans.  “The Little Alien is kicking me in the fucking stomach, I’m doing great.”  He punctuates the sentence with a retch, one hand gripping the fabric of his sleep shirt over the rise of his belly.  It’s understandably an issue.  The baby is nearly two entire pounds of whoop-ass at this point—it kicks like a tiny, cauliflower-sized horse.  Shiro can’t see Keith’s face, just the hair on the back of his neck, which is sweaty and sticking to his skin.  He convinces himself not to run his hand through it, knowing that Keith probably doesn’t want to be touched right now.  Instead, he goes and fetches their Disney Princess thermometer.

He swears the wait nearly kills him, but after everything, Keith’s fever is still an underwhelming 99.2 degrees.  That’s still mild as frick as far as fevers go.  It’s even gone down by point two degrees since the last time he checked.  Breathing out, Shiro sets the thermometer aside and focuses on convincing Keith to drink a little more Gatorade.  He hasn’t fussed over someone this much since the time that Lance inhaled pool water as a kid.  Keith is going to be damn lucky if he goes back to school at all this week.  He should be thankful to be excused from Hellhole™. 

Aaand Shiro should probably stop having such strong opinions about public school.  Whatever.  It’s whatever.  He has until Pidge graduates to mend the rift, everything is fine.

It is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prepare for the complications (tm). We're heading for a climax, I think.
> 
> Forgive me for my awful posting habits, but I've had this chapter and the next one nearly complete for months now. It was just the adoption dinner chapter that was giving me trouble :'D


	24. Week Twenty-Three: Freeze Frame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shiro gets scolded, the kids deal with some baggage, and a pair of earrings are unearthed.

Shiro honestly cannot get a break.  If it isn’t Keith getting sick, it’s the rest of the kids catching the savage bug while Allura abandons ship, leaving him alone with four grumpy, pukey toddlers.  And if it isn’t that horror scenario, it’s all of them subsequently passing it on to Shiro like a tidal wave of germs and misery.  He’s exhausted, he’s done… he’s going back to work tomorrow… aaand he’s still awake, at two in the morning—despite the delightful fact that he was awake for nearly twenty-four hours being plagued by nausea—because something feels Wrong.

He’s so wiped that dragging himself out of bed is… it’s awful.  He doesn’t have words for how awful it is because he doesn’t have the energy for language.  Shuffling around like a zombie is a fashion statement, he decides, on his way to the hallway bathroom.  He leans into the cracked door, wincing against the light.  “The fuck is going on?” he tries to say.  His voice sounds like sawdust.  Raspy is the new black.

He’s met with two exhausted faces ducking over the sink, heads together.  Shiro tries to zoom in on the pair of sweats Keith is hand-washing as Hunk apparently provides emotional support— _that’s odd what’s up with that, is that blood_ —and ends up zoning out for a good few minutes.  When he tunes back in, Hunk is guiding him back to bed.

“Wait, no,” Shiro says, digging in his heels.  Keith is awake, Keith is upset, he’s gotta—

Hunk is already shaking his head.  “He’s fine, Shiro.  Just spotting kind of heavy.  You need to take care of yourself before you can take care of us, dude.” 

Behind them, there’s the sound of soapy ooze slopping onto porcelain.  Everything inside of him insists that he can’t walk away.  He’s so tired, though…

By morning he’s only feeling marginally better.  The kids have all bounced back already, the annoying young shits, so he has to field arguments from three different directions when he tries to leave Keith at home with Allura for the day.  Keith insists he’s fine, Allura doesn’t want to babysit, and Lance… well, Shiro isn’t sure what Lance is grumpy about, but he is and he’s doing his best to give Shiro a headache.

“ _Stop_ ,” Shiro says when he can’t take it anymore.  Can’t they let him be overprotective in peace for a hot second?  The stomach flu literally took out the entire House just last week, he thinks it’s only fair.  He rubs at his temple.  “Let’s just… try it my way for now.”  And, with several strict reminders not to smoke in the house because it’s bad for the baby (and Allura, too, but he is under no delusion that he can stop Allura from doing what she wants), he’s out the door.

The tables are turned on him literally the moment he arrives in Ulaz’s field of vision.  Ulaz is a lanky guy, kind of gaunt in the right light with decidedly Polish brows, and when he stands up straight he towers over everyone else in the room.  Shiro usually thinks his own six-foot frame is pretty impressive, especially for a Japanese guy, but frankly speaking, he’s outclassed here. 

This is the only reason he lets Ulaz corner him after the first lecture to let him know that he’s not allowed back into the classroom unless he goes home to nap for his lunch break.  And if he decides to take said lunch break two hours early, well, he’ll blame that on the fact that it’s a bad idea to leave bored teenagers unsupervised.

The first thing he hears at home is… talking.  It’s coming from Allura’s room.  Now, generally speaking, Shiro tries not to do anything that might tacitly condone the kids’ spying habits.  There is one (1) loophole, however—it’s not condoning if there are no peeping eyes around to catch him in the act.  He forgives himself for eavesdropping for a moment before announcing his presence because between vomit and adoption papers, sobs and school meetings, his entire world has been thoroughly rocked in the past two weeks.  Allura doesn’t talk, just like Keith doesn’t hug, and if there was ever a time to toss out the rulebook in search of solid ground, _this is it_.

“—at’s fucking weird,” she’s saying, her voice low and uneven like she’s putting her concentration somewhere other than the words.  Is she working with her hands?  Shiro creeps down the hallway, holding his breath.

“I dunno, that’s just what they called her,” Keith says.  He’s quiet, too.  Somber.  This sure isn’t the kind of _Home Alone XVII: Keith and Allura_ conversation Shiro would expect to walk in on at ten in the morning, and that fact just adds another layer to the buzz of questions.  Keith clicks his tongue.  “Some of the ones who knew us the longest called her the Korean Lady, but most of them weren’t around before she got pregnant.”

The Korean Lady… Pregnant.  His mother?  They called her the Pregnant Lady?  Is that why he gets all bent out of shape when people string those two words together in that particular way?  “They all sound like assholes,” Allura mutters, and Shiro agrees.

“Yeah.  My dad used to try to get me to like them.  He was always all ‘ _call them Uncle_ ’ but dude… when the same guy repeatedly talks about how hot your mom was before she got pregnant and how he would have fucked her if someone didn’t get there first?  ‘S just not cool.”

Allura grunts.  “That’s how I feel—hold still, oh my god—about Zarkon.  He grew up with Shiro—so what?  It’s his fault Shiro lost his arm, why should I call him Uncle?”

…Oh.  Oh, god.  This was a mistake.  There’s an exception to every rule, but this is _not_ that and if Allura keeps talking Shiro WILL cry, and then she’ll shut it down forever.  With that in mind, he takes this as his cue to pop in and pop out so that he’s _well out of range_ when they continue the conversation.

Except he only makes everything worse when he rounds the corner with an exaggerated wave.  “CHRIST, Shiro, don’t you know how to knock?” Allura yells, jumping up from where she was kneeling in front of Keith’s lap.  With the reflexes of a startled cat, Keith dives to the side, hiding under a blanket on the bed.  For one wild, WILD moment Shiro is absolutely convinced that they were doing something that they should NOT be doing, and his face is well on its way to Red Dye #40 hues before he realizes that they’re both fully clothed and there’s a makeup bag sitting beside Keith’s vacated spot.

Keith lets out a whine as Shiro puts a hand over his heart like a startled old man, trying to lower his blood pressure by willing it back down.  “Don’t look don’t look don’t look—” the kid squeaks at the same time Allura shouts, “Get OUT!”

Back to the hallway he goes.  God, if he wasn’t aware that spying is bad two minutes ago then he _sure is now_.  He leans on the wall, still taking even breaths to bring down the flush on his face.  He just lost four years off his life, holy shit.  He—wait a second. 

“…You weren’t coerced into this, right, Keith?” he asks, suspicious.

“Don’t be a fucking jock,” Allura says, accompanied by the sound of containers being shuffled.  Rude.  When Shiro leans over to frown through his fingers, he can just barely see her stuffing her eyeshadow palettes back into the bag.  She knows better than anyone that he doesn’t have an issue with men and make-up.  She used to do his eyeliner back when she was still learning how.  Is it so hard to imagine that he’s worried about Keith’s dysphoria and not some archaic notion of gender roles? 

“I want to hear it from him,” Shiro responds, giving her what he hopes is a decent approximation of the glare Keith uses to brutally murder whoever’s gotten on his bad side. 

Allura returns it effortlessly, and Keith groans into her bed.  “…It’s okay, Shiro, I just… was kind of curious?”  Shiro lowers his shoulders, letting out a breath.  He’s about to get right on out of there and let them carry on because _Christ, lesson learned_  when Keith continues.  “I don’t know, it’s like… my whole life, everyone tried so hard to make me a girl and I fought even harder back to be a boy.  I never got to enjoy, like, any of it.  So, I thought… why not?”

Huh.  After a baker’s dozen promises not to take a picture OR ELSE, Keith finally lets Shiro see.  He walks in slowly, careful not to startle anyone this time, coming to a stop in front of the bed.  Keith makes a face but tilts his chin up. 

It’s a cute look, even if the lipstick is a little dark.  Allura favors bold colors, which are a little out of place on Keith’s sharp, pale features.  Keith angles his head to the side—he’s wearing the little Junniberry earrings that Allura made when she was sixteen and still cared about her extracurriculars.  Up until right this second, Shiro thought they’d been lost in The Purge.

Seeing them again… it’s enough to make Shiro tear up a little.  The Purge was a tough time for House Voltron.  Allura graduated top of her class, just like her dad wanted her to, and promptly had a breakdown because he wasn’t there to see.  Everything that meant something to him that she could get her hands on went in the trash.  Shiro had to hide all the picture albums at Coran’s place.  Several well-meaning graduation gifts were ripped up before Shiro could save them.

In the past few months she’s been better about tolerating people talking about Alfor, and even seeing pictures, but she’ll still leave the room in anger if the conversation lasts more than a few minutes.  Which is why it’s a shock to the system to see the Junniberry earrings, undamaged and gifted to another of the kids.  And to hear her talking openly about Zarkon… after what happened at the funeral…

It’s also a shock to realize that Keith has pierced ears, knowing that he wouldn’t have done it willingly, but Shiro chooses not to focus on that.  He sniffs and clears his throat.  “Wow,” he says.  “Allura did good, huh?”

Keith grins and nods, looking over at her.  They share a smile.  And then Allura shoves Shiro out the door, grumbling the whole time about the fact that no one thinks to knock before they come in and make the place their own.

It’s right then, the moment that the door starts closing in his face, that Shiro notices movement from Keith’s hands.  He only catches a little of the motion—one thumb rubbing across the ridges of his knuckles once, twice.  Is that… a stim?  Does Keith stim?  Lance has fidget toys out the ass, and sometimes Shiro catches Pidge stroking a particularly soft sweater, but… what does it mean for Keith?

Shiro thinks about it all the way back to work.  That and the other hundred things today dredged up.  What does it all mean?  Will he figure it out any time soon?  He can only push so hard, especially on so little sleep.

It’s not until he gets to Ulaz’s classroom that he realizes—he totally forgot to nap.

 

* * *

 

 

“Maybe I have a brain tumor,” Lance announces at dinner that night.  He doesn’t sound particularly convinced—it’s more like he’s searching for any plausible explanation for what he’s calling a ‘hole in reality’, citing and discarding one line of reasoning after another when they’re deemed erroneous.

Keith sighs heavily, stabbing his fork into his chicken.  “Maybe you _are_ a brain tumor,” he rebuts.  “It’s just a pair of earrings, what’s the problem?”

They are, to be fair, completely out of sync with his usual style of black _you-can’t-prove-I-don’t-ride-a-Harley_ hand-me-downs and fingerless leather gloves.  Shiro was surprised to see them again when he got home from napping under Ulaz’s desk, though Keith took the care to scrub his face clean.  He’s also wearing a beanie that must have come from the cavernous space under Allura’s bed.

Lance scoffs.  “Look, as your _brother_ I’m just concerned for your mental health—"

Keith cuts him off.  “Denied.” 

“Hey—"

“I’m craving milk and I don’t know why,” Keith says, staring at Hunk’s cup with a pout, ending the accessory discussion with the slam of a verbal sliding glass door. 

“Yeah, no, I am NOT giving you milk,” Hunk snorts.  Lance scowls sullenly at his side.

“Maybe it won’t make me sick,” Keith argues.  “My body obviously wants it.”

“No, your body wants calcium.  Maybe lipids.  Not lactose.”

“You know,” Pidge pipes up from the far end, where her laptop is sitting precariously close to the table’s edge.  “People say that pregnancy can change a lot of the chemical reactions in your body so it’s not so far of a stretch to imagine that it can alter digestive enzymes.”

“So he’s randomly going to start producing lactase just because his hormones are jacked up?  Really?”  Hunk stares down at her.

“It’s not just hormones!  Haven’t you been to a biology class?!”

“I’ve been to more biology classes than you have!  I have superiority!”

“Not about enzymes, you don’t!”

“…Guys can we not argue about my internal organs.”

“Agreed, I’d rather argue about those earrings.”

“ _Would you forget the fucking earrings already_ —”

Voices escalate and Shiro turns to Allura to share an eye roll.  The problem there is that Allura is not paying an iota of attention.  She never does, because her phone is apparently ten times as interesting as the entire House combined, but usually she’ll at least acknowledge them with a gum pop.  “Hey, you okay?” Shiro asks quietly, leaning toward her.

Her head pops up.  “Uhhh, yeah.  Sorry, I was reading something.”

Suspect.  “Like… what?”  God, if it’s erotic fanfic again… why does it have to be at the table?

She can clearly see the direction his brain is heading and snickers.  “It’s just an info packet for incoming students.  I sent an application to the community college earlier and they unloaded a bunch of newbie pamphlets on me.”

“Oh.  Yeah, the university does that too, but the application process usually takes a little long— _eeeeeer Allura you did WHAT_?”

Somehow, he manages to not shout that last part but it’s a close thing.  He still catches the attention of every eye at the table.  Four faces swivel toward them.  Allura’s dark cheeks flush a little darker and she tips her head to the side, pursing her lips.  “Don’t make a big deal out of it or anything, but… I thought I’d try again.  Take some botany classes, see if it’s for me.  Keith helped me out.  I’m gonna start in the spring because fuck being normal,” she says.

And… holy shit.  Vomit, adoption papers, sobs, and school meetings have turned into blood, Junniberry earrings, conversations about past lives, and community college.  Allura glances up to him and there is a spark in her eyes.  So long she spent frozen, like she was waiting in stasis for her second chance, and now she’s finally thawing.  Shiro presses his fingers to his mouth before he can do something exceptionally stupid, like laugh out loud.  He feels giddy.  Is this his general exhaustion or is this sheer relief?  Who knows?  Allura is going _back_ to _school_!

“Wait, so… are you done yelling at us every time we ask about that stuff?” Lance asks, meek.  He, Hunk, and Pidge are all bracing themselves as if they’re waiting for the usual outburst.  It doesn’t come.  Allura just shrugs, one side of her mouth tipping up into a small smile.  Lance responds in kind, his entire face lighting up with excitement.  He whoops loudly, both fists raised in the air, and throws himself at her in a tackle-hug. 

 

* * *

 

 

Shiro feels like champagne bubbles when he catches Keith after dinner to thank him.  It’s been _so hard_ for Allura since her dad died, and he’s been so worried for so long that she’ll never face that hurt and work past it—he’s so  _so_ glad that Keith said or did the Right Thing to help, whatever it was.  Maybe it was just the fact that they’re so alike.  Maybe she needed to talk to someone in the same boat as her, who could really understand.  Whatever the trigger was, Shiro is _grateful_.

Keith, on the other hand, is back to the stimming.  It’s becoming more noticeable now—hands in fists, thumb working a repetitive rhythm back and forth across the knuckles.  “You okay?” Shiro asks.

This time, the kid in question _doesn’t_ pop right up to announce exciting new plans.  In fact, he kind of shrinks in on himself.  He crosses his arms with an uncomfortable shrug, and his fists settle underneath his biceps, thumbs working working working.  He’s staring more towards the floor than anywhere else.  “I don’t know.  It’s not about Allura, so don’t worry.  It’s just…  I’m…”  He sighs, rubbing his face.  “It’s nothing.”

“Somehow I get the feeling it’s not.”  Shiro tugs him by the elbow until they’re sitting side by side on a rug.  Keith lets a hard breath out through his nose. 

“Look, I’m just… uh, kinda scared, I guess?”

“What about?” Shiro asks.

“Everything?” Keith whispers, hunching down and leaning as far forward over his knees as he can.  He can’t go very far before his belly starts to pull awkwardly at the hem of his jeans.  “Watching her finally moving forward and doing things with her life, I’m just suddenly so nervous that I’m going to… miss stuff.  Like something bad will happen and I’ll never be able to do the things I wanted to do.  I don’t want my life to end like my mom’s did.”

Shiro nods.  They’re at the start of the third trimester, the home stretch, and there is an uncomfortable truth in the fact that they are nearing the point where Keith’s mom’s journey came to an end.  These kids and the shadows of their dead parents… Shiro tells him that it will be okay, that if Allura can pick up her dragging feet again a year and a half after a complete stall-out, there’s still hope.  When the words don’t seem to do anything, he leans over and drags Keith into a hug, rocking him a little.  “You have nothing to worry about,” he says softly, pressing his lips to Keith’s hair.  “There is nothing you can’t overcome if you set your mind to it, buddy.”

If only he knew what was coming for them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)


	25. Week Twenty-Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blood, blood, blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the chapter with the tags for blood and complications.

_This is it._

_._

_._

_._

_This is it._

_._

_._

_._

_This is it._

_._

_._

_._

_We lost…_

The conversation from the week before seems to have seeped into Shiro’s pores, an echo of the feeling he had when he reached the divide in the diary.  It feels like a warning.  He tries to shake it because come on, that’s ridiculous.  Of COURSE the kid is scared.  He’s in a scary situation!  Odds are that nothing will happen.  Sure, the odds are a little worse because of the whole intersex thing, and the teenage thing, too, he guesses.  But they’re still good odds, simply because they made it this far without trouble.  They’ve done everything in their power to force the best possible outcome, so twenty-nine weeks into a pregnancy like this with little to none actual complications?  That’s three-fourths of the way to the finish line, prognosis: excellent. 

Then Keith wakes up one morning, face paler than Shiro has ever seen it, saying he feels kind of dizzy.  Last week turns into an omen.  It’s hubris, back to bite Shiro in the ass.  He should have seen it coming.

He knows what to watch for, has sticky notes covered in his shaky scrawl all over the mirror in the master bathroom.  Signs of anemia—pallor, dizziness, fainting.  Signs that something is wrong with the placenta—excessive bleeding, shortness of breath, pain, severe cramping.  Signs of miscarriage—bleeding, cramps, no fetal movement, fever.  And he knows that realistically, it’s probably not one of the latter two.  Whatever this is, it’ll pass quickly enough.  Like the stomach bug.  Like Keith’s panic attacks.  Maybe Keith didn’t get enough folic acid this week and it’ll clear up by the time he goes to his next pre-natal appointment. 

…There’s still something deep in Shiro’s gut that refuses to let him go about his day like nothing is wrong.  So, for the third time in three weeks he keeps Keith home, and this time he plops down right beside him.

He must infect the rest of the house with his hesitance to leave because no one wants to head to their various before-school clubs and activities.  He all but shoves Lance and Pidge out the door, but when he gets to Hunk, he finds him immobile.  He decides not to fight it.  Unlike the other two, Hunk NEVER skips, so he’s allowed to stay home just this once.  And besides, Hunk always has the best luck convincing Keith to take it easy.  Trying to stop Keith from working on the bike when he wants to is almost always a futile endeavor, but Hunk has just the right combination of sweet talk and persistence.  Shiro lets out a breath when Keith settles back onto the couch after a hard-fought battle, admitting with a grumble that he GUESSES he can sit still for a bit because he’s not feeling that great.

It’s clear that everyone is on edge—Allura hasn’t even closed her door fully.  The way Hunk keeps squinting at Keith from the kitchen with his phone out like he’s going to call 911 seems like overkill, though.

Until it’s not.

Shiro stands up to field a call from Lance.  That’s when it happens.  He’s trying to talk Lance out of stealing the band teacher’s car, reassuring him that they’ll CALL if anything happens, Keith laughing a little because, “I’d like to see him try to hotwire a car, oh my god,” when Keith shifts like he’s going to get up and the laugh is cut short.  “Shiro?” comes his shaky voice, and when Shiro turns around Keith’s face is deathly white.  He’s on his feet, barely, hovering like he’s not sure what’s happening, and Shiro scarcely has the time to realize that there’s _blood_ on the couch before Keith wobbles forward and collapses to his hands and knees, one hand pressed to his stomach, feeling down, looking for the source.

“I don’t… where’s it coming from?" he gasps, and his hands are shaking, and there’s blood all down his thighs.

Shiro, ignoring his own deadened limbs and the panicky breath on his own tongue, crouches down beside him.  He puts a hand on his shoulder and the kid flinches and whimpers, his breath coming short and shallow, terrified and _terrifying_.  Hunk must sense something amiss because a pan drops in the kitchen and he comes rushing to Shiro’s side.  Shiro pushes him toward Allura’s room.  “Get ‘Lura!” he manages to say, somehow, through frozen lips.  “Minivan, now!”

Because this is it.  Something is wrong.  Keith’s face is white and he’s staring at Shiro with huge, glassy eyes, and this is exactly what the doctors have been telling them to watch for this entire time.  The kids are out the door in three seconds flat.  He hangs up unceremoniously on Lance.  It’s just him and Keith now.  He needs to get Keith out to the van.

Shiro has a checklist for times like these.  Ever since the accident he’s been prone to awful anxiety attacks, so he makes sure to always have a plan in place for the What If.  He’s never been more thankful for his paranoia than he is _right now_.  He whips around the room, snags both of their shoes from next to the door.  Double and triple checks that he has both of their phones.  It’s nippy outside.  October weather.  Not cold enough to hurt.  Keith already has a jacket tied around his waist.  No time to worry if it’s enough—it has to be.  Then he’s leaning down again, preparing to scoop Keith into his arms.  Asking the kid softly to _hold on, honey_ , and thank god for mild dissociation because he’s pretty sure if he were all the way in his body right now he’d be gasping for air just like Keith is.  “I’m gonna put my arm under your knees and pick you up, okay?” he says.  He might say some other things, too.  He’s not sure. 

Those parts, whatever they might be, aren’t important.  All he knows is that Keith wraps shaking arms around his neck, and then he’s lifting the boy in one swift motion, and Keith’s voice in his ear is saying, “Shiro, can’t _breathe_ —” and nothing is right, everything is wrong.

Allura drives, Hunk calls.  Shiro gets a seatbelt onto Keith in one jerky, mechanical motion.

It’s a fifteen-minute drive, and the good news is that Keith calms down in the car—turns out the not-breathing thing was more panic attack than anything else, which is the single blessed fact of the situation.  Shiro manages to get him in his shoes before they arrive, leaning toward him from the next seat over and tying his laces for him like he’s in kindergarten.  Keith is still shaky on his feet when they get him out of the van, but he bites his cheek and walks inside under his own power.  He holds desperately tight to Shiro’s right arm the entire way—Shiro makes sure to keep close to his side as a nurse with a wheelchair comes to meet them.

The nurses and doctors do the thing where they swarm, asking question after question, and Allura plants herself right next to Keith to help him answer them.  Shiro walks away… or he thinks he does.  Maybe he’s led out of the room.  He’s not quite clear on the details.  He’s getting bits and blurs, these weird, sticky chunks of time.  Hunk taking him to the bathroom to try and clean some of the blood off his shirt.  Talking to Coran, having the man collect the other kids from the school.  Talking to Lance on the phone, who is frantic in his ear.

Trying to convince himself that he just has to keep taking deep breaths until the doctors can tell them what’s wrong.

 

* * *

 

 

He thinks he’s doing pretty good, all things considered.  Sure, the bits are getting shorter and the blurs are taking his breath away, but when you factor in the whole lost-an-arm-once thing, he could be doing a hell of a lot worse.

“Please tell us what’s happening before the stress kills Shiro,” Hunk pleads, and Shiro wants to flick him for that except he’s not exactly wrong.  There’s a tightness in Shiro’s chest that’s indicative of imminent hyperventilation.  But it hasn’t gotten there yet, he reminds himself.  Not there yet.  Still okay.  Still good.  He’s holding together.

…the things the doctor says don’t exactly relieve the tightness, and Shiro starts to feel worse as he listens.

“The placenta implanted low, close to the cervix—that’s where the bleeding is coming from.  The baby is growing, which puts a strain on his uterus.  We’ve talked about this before—atypical uterus, difficulty of implantation, all of that.  The fact that he’s _also_ growing doubles the strain.  Stress and illness don’t help.”

The words are like fish.  Teeny, flighty little fish that flit away just as Shiro reaches for them.  He’s not really sure if he actually heard anything after ‘placenta’ and ‘bleeding’ because when he tries to think it just tastes like static dripping down from his sinuses, but she isn’t done.  The words keep swimming past.

“The bleeding should stop on its own, but we need to watch it closely to make sure it doesn’t get worse.  We’re going to keep him here until it clears up, and then I’m going to recommend bed rest for the remainder of the pregnancy.”

Those last words echo around the room long after they are spoken.  She spoke carefully and clearly, enunciating all the medical terms and definitions for their uneducated, panicky ears, but Shiro still feels like she just lobbed a brick at his head.  He takes a shaky breath.  Hospitals aren’t the best place for him anyway, it’s honestly amazing that he’s still on his feet.  It could be worse, he tries to think, and his brain tells him to shut the fuck up.

Allura seems to realize what’s going on right about when he starts to sway, his knees going weak, and she pushes him into a chair.  Hunk tries to look supportive from where he’s pressed himself against Keith’s side, rubbing a big hand up and down Keith’s arm, but mostly he just looks scared and sick.

God, they all do.  They aren’t supposed to.  This is _wrong_.  Shiro puts his head between his knees for a while, hoping that he’ll come to terms with this soon so that he can actually take care of the kids like he’s supposed to be doing.  He feels useless like this.

When he comes back up, feeling significantly less shaky, he finds Allura standing in front of him.  She’s got her phone out, gum popping, hip cocked.  “Lance has texted me, like, fifty times,” she says.  “You’d better call him again before he gnaws through his bedsheets.”

“How’s Keith?” Shiro croaks, and Jesus Christ, his voice sounds like shredded cheese.  He glances over—Keith is laying down on his left side, eyes half closed, as Hunk rambles about next steps for the bike.  His dazed eyes catch Shiro’s, and he tries to sit up a little straighter, but Shiro is quick to get up and nudge him back down.

Allura gives up the smallest smile, standing next to him.  “He’s okay.  Got a little freaked out by the fact that you weren’t responding, but we calmed him down.  They gave him an IV and they’re monitoring contractions.”

“Contractions?”

“Just in case.  It’s to make sure the baby isn’t in distress.”

“But they’re okay?”

“They’re okay, Shiro.”

“You’re okay?” Shiro triple-checks, palming Keith’s hair back from his face.  Keith nods.  He looks spent, exhausted, but Shiro trusts that he’s not lying.  At some point, they stripped him out of his normal clothes and it makes him look so unlike himself all swaddled up in six layers of medical devices and hospital gowns and blankets.  A wide blue belt Velcroed around his waist is just visible under the top blanket—measuring contractions, Shiro guesses.  Blue is such an odd color on him.  He leans hard into reds and blacks, usually, but right now the only thing that still feels like _him_ is his hair.  It’s so dark against the pillow that Shiro can’t help but think of oil slicks and melted tar. 

Tar.  Tarmac.  Asphalt.  As ‘distress’ fades back into ‘general unease’, Shiro feels anger starting to rise up the back of his throat, just like it does whenever he thinks about the accident.  This isn’t fair.  Why is the universe screwing with them like this?  All he’s ever done is try to be his best for the people in his care.  It was one thing when it was his own body folded in the middle of a taco shell made out of the frame of his brother’s car, but _what divine force_ thinks it’s okay to do this to a _seventeen-year-old kid_?  Is this God fucking around?  Is this Fate taking a gamble?  Or is this just what it looks like when Mother Nature botches a strand of DNA and can’t be assed to fix it?

Like mother like son, Shiro thinks with a twist to his lip.  Keith’s mom made it to thirty-three weeks with baby Keith before she jinxed it, and Keith seems to have inherited the curse.  Shiro suddenly wants to cuss out a dead Korean woman he never met.

No.  No, that’s not fair, either, is it?  Shiro leans on the edge of the hospital bed and lets the tension go.  He can’t think about this as if there are categories of abusers and categories of victims.  Keith may have come into this life as his mother folded her hand, but neither of them predicted this and neither of them asked for it.  Right?  The worst circumstances are hardly ever intentional—they just _are_.

Shiro breathes deeply, letting the words flow through him.  Soon enough, he’s calm again.  Mindful meditation—works every time.  Except when it doesn’t work, but he hasn’t had a breakdown that bad in many a year. 

In his pocket, his phone rings.  That’ll be someone from the House.  Coran is with Lance and Pidge right now so that the rest of them can stay here with Keith until visiting hours end.  _Good luck getting me to leave_ , Shiro thinks as he fumbles for the cell.  With heavy fingers he struggles to pry it free, wincing at the torrents of notifications informing him that Lance, Pidge, and Coran are all worried as hell.  His battery is thiiis close to death, but miraculously it's not there quite yet.  “Hey,” he answers softly, shuffling away from Keith so he’s not disturbing him.  Hunk slides into his vacated seat.

“Shiro,” comes Lance’s voice, dead serious.  “Let Keith on the phone.”

Shiro scrubs at his face, his prosthesis’s fingers lingering at the ridge bisecting the bridge of his nose.  “He’s a little out of it, buddy, I’m not sure if he’s awake enough to talk.”  He doesn’t mention the fact that he himself has just barely come down from his own meltdown—another issue for another time.

With a whine, Lance drags the phone down his cheek.  There’s a _whap_ , and Shiro visualizes him reaching out to smack a hand at whatever is closest to him, which from the sound of it is Coran’s solid bicep.  “He doesn’t _need_ to talk,” he says impatiently.  “Okay?  Can you just… just tell him that, tell him I’ll talk if he doesn’t want to.”

Shiro relays the message.  Without a word, Keith starts reaching for him, his hand just shy of steady.  “You sure you want to talk?” Shiro asks, double-checking.  Keith nods.  Once he gets his hands on the phone, though, the kid stares at the screen for a stretch of time that feels way too long before he hands it over to Hunk, making an odd gesture.

“Oh, okay,” Hunk says and hits the speaker button.  How he knew to do that, Shiro has no idea.  “Lance, you’re on speaker.  Is everyone there?”

“Present,” Pidge chirps, and Coran responds in the affirmative.

Lance clears his throat.  “Yeah, so—Keith?  My dude?  No funny business, all right?  Pidge is hacked into the hospital’s digital database right now, so we’ll know if you do anything dumb, like try to die.  Got it?”

“Mmhm,” Keith says, the first sound Shiro has heard him make in several hours.  The poor kid is so out of it—he’s barely keeping his eyes open.  When Hunk sets the phone down on the bed, he curls up around it, hands tucked against his chest.  His gloves are missing.  His fingers are calloused, but their roughness is deceptive—when you look closer you can see how small they actually are.  He breathes out, relaxing as Lance starts to talk.

Lance has no trouble filling the silence.  Lackluster response or not, he’s always ready with something to say.  He babbles away, and Shiro lets it drift into the background of his consciousness as he takes a seat beside Allura and leans his head on her shoulder.  He tries to keep a close eye on Keith, just to be safe, but Keith is looking less scared than he has all evening, so maybe it's okay.  A small smile dances on his face as Lance mimics one of their teachers.  This is… well, it’s not great, but this isn’t the end.  They haven’t lost yet.

They stay like that for a long time.  Shiro leaning on Allura, Hunk next to Keith, everyone else just on the other end of a phone call.  Nurses come in and out, checking monitors and adjusting wires.  Shiro's phone stays alive as if powered by the force of something from Beyond.  He waits and waits for it to die, but it hangs onto the last two percent charge as if it can do it indefinitely, as if it knows that they need this soft, sweet moment more than anything.  Lance’s voice, occasionally accentuated by one of the other kids, fills the over-sanitized room with all the stories and jokes he feels like sharing, and Shiro knows he’ll keep going, never pausing, as long as it takes for everything to get back to normal.

“I think I’m falling asleep,” Keith finally mumbles, his voice like a breath, and on the other end of the line Lance huffs fondly.

“That’s okay.  You’re always the one who falls asleep first.  You can just stay on until you crash and then Shiro will end the call.  Right, Shiro?”

“Right,” Shiro whispers, and he’s true to his word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> >:)


	26. Week Twenty-Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The House finds out what you do with cupcakes, curry, and cheese curds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Watch out for talk about miscarriages and losing babies in this chapter. It doesn't happen, they're just talking about it.

They get to take Keith back home six days later.  He’s two inches taller and twenty pounds heavier than he was when he first arrived, but he’s never looked so small.

Shiro stayed with him the entire time, job be damned.  Jobs, school… none of it matters compared to the visceral terror that was having a sick, scared kid clinging desperately to his neck as blood ran down his thighs.  It was very similar to the weeks directly after the crash, after he’d lost his arm to the Jaws of Life so they could get him out of the car before his lung collapsed.  It’s an odd thing, trauma—it reorganizes your head, your life, without so much as a hello first. 

As Hunk helps bundle Keith into the back of the van, he can’t shake the soft conversations they had during their stay.

Things like:

     “I think I actually… miss my long hair.”

And then, quieter:

     “I don’t want to have the baby.  I don’t want the surgery.”

And then, almost impossibly soft:

     “You won’t… I don’t have to leave when I turn eighteen, right?”

There are no words to make it easier, not when Shiro is this close to the source of the suffering and feels like he, himself, is mired in the thick of it.  There are things that he just doesn’t know how to change, weights that he can’t lower from his shoulders.  At least Keith will be home from now on—knock on wood—because the one thing he can do is refuse to let Keith back out of his sight.  Keith isn’t leaving them, that much he can promise.

At the House, Shiro links elbows with the kid to guide him inside, helping support his weight.  The rest of them trail behind like an entourage, Lance whooping and cheering faintly the whole time, but even with the support, Keith can’t quite make it all the way down the hall to the Blue Room.  He’s worn out, and it’s showing.  Shiro instead guides him to the room he abandoned, the Red Room, gesturing for Lance to go fetch their bedding.

Once Keith is down, immediately starting to doze as he nuzzles into his pillow, Lance and Shiro stand there awkwardly like two stone pillars, waiting for something to collapse.  Lance taps a fidget spinner against his thigh.  “So…”

…If only Shiro had an answer to that. 

It takes them a while, but after an eternity of obstinate hovering, the two of them find places to settle.  Shiro perches on the edge of the bed, slowly rubbing a hand up and down Keith’s warm back, while Lance folds up near the closet, fidgeting with the little plastic spinner.  The room is just about silent now, in a way that the House usually isn’t and the hospital room _definitely_ was not.  As a general rule, you can tell how much Lance cares about someone by how much he talks to them—the more words per minute, the more he cares.  Right now, the way he’s keeping respectfully quiet is throwing two middle fingers up at the rule.  Maybe he’s not feeling quite up to this, either.  Shiro can't blame him.

At some point noises start up in the kitchen, Pidge periodically sticking her nose in to quietly ask about where Shiro put this or that ingredient—he’ll admit that he was more asleep than awake the last time he stocked the kitchen—until finally Hunk comes tip-toeing into the room, a hesitant, expectant smile on his face. 

“Is he awake?” he asks, wiping a hand nervously on his shorts.  The other one is hidden behind the door frame. 

Shiro glances down as Keith shifts a little.  “Keith?” he calls softly.  There’s a quiet snuffle in response.

“Hey, my man,” Hunk says, taking this as confirmation.  “We were gonna have a party for you for your birthday, but I know you’re not feeling that good, so I’ll just give you this and go.”  He sets a covered plate on the dresser and backs out. 

“It’s my eighteenth?” Keith asks drowsily, rolling until he can see the door as it closes again behind Hunk.  It’s hard to tell if he actually caught sight of the cupcake offering or not.  He can have one later if he wants.  The concept of 'later' feels so far away.

Shiro swallows that down.  “Yeah, a few days ago, buddy.  If you’re up for it, we can celebrate next week.  Sound good?”  He carefully brushes Keith’s hair out of his eyes, looking for an answer. 

“Next week is my six month-iversary,” Keith says, much more confident about that than he was about his own birthday. 

“Yeah.  Yeah, it is.”  Shiro rests his flesh hand on Keith’s head, the warmth soaking through him.  In a little over a week’s time, he’ll be able to say that he’s cared for Keith and the Little Alien inside of him for six whole months, a span of time that feels almost unreal right now.  Then again, everything feels unreal.

 

* * *

 

Shiro keeps the boys company until his unrelenting duties as Adultest Adult of the House start to dig into his side like a thorn.  He shuffles out of the Red Room as he calls up the school secretary to excuse Keith from classes for the indefinite future.  She hums in his ear, tells him that Keith needs _another_ IEP to figure out how to cover his extended absence, and Shiro finds that he’s _this_ goddamn close to hurling his phone across the room.  Reality sweeps back in like the tide, unrelenting.  He doesn’t know what to do.  He’s at the end of his rope, here.  There is no other choice.

Like his sixth sense is kicking in, Coran picks up on the first ring with a cheery, “Afternoon, Number One!”

“Uh, yeah.  Afternoon.  Whatever.  Listen, what can you pull to keep Keith from flunking out this semester?” Shiro asks.  He’s standing on the front porch, one hand pressed to his forehead like a harried mother.  A fall leaf smacks him in the chest and he jumps, swiping at it irritably.

Coran laughs, probably stroking his moustache as he throws his head back.  “Oh, is that all?  I thought you might have a problem you needed help unsnarling!”

“I do!  It is!” Shiro hisses.  “Keith’s attendance record has been abysmal the past few years and I know he doesn’t want to slack off, but I can’t have him going to class and I don’t want him to have to repeat this year _again_ —"

“Shiro.  All this requires is a chat with administration.  Record some lectures, have the kids bring home his work, get him in the habit of emailing his teachers—there is a simple fix.  Now, you mind telling me what really has your panties in a bunch?”

He makes it sound so _easy_.  Shiro sucks in a deep breath, letting his head fall back against the wall, only straightening when he remembers that spiders like to spin their webs out here.  There is a desire within him to be petulant, say _no, of course he minds_ , but Coran, like the preternatural creature he is, isn’t wrong.  “Okay, fine,” Shiro relents.  “Have you ever… have you ever known someone who lost a baby?”

This time there is an actual pause as Coran ponders the question.  “Hm.  Definitely seen a fair number of miscarriages in my time.  Usually in the first trimester, though—the ones that were destined to pass on just because the time and the conditions weren’t right, you know.  I wasn’t specialized in anything where I’d see later-stage miscarriages or stillbirths.  Those tend to be rare in the military barracks I worked in.  Personally, though… I did know a lady who lost a preemie.  The baby was in distress and came too early—there wasn’t really anything to do at that point.  It’s just how it is sometimes.  She wanted the baby, of course, but she grieved and moved on and tried again a few years later.”

Shiro listens raptly, taking in every scrap of information.  He’s not worried, he reminds himself.  It’s just that there is a possibility, an outside chance, that Keith is going to lose the Little Alien.  He just… wants to be prepared.

“… _Shiro_.”

Why does Coran have to say his name in that tone of voice.  Why.  Shiro doesn’t respond except to hum, the bare minimum of acknowledgment.

“Stop getting ahead of yourself,” Coran says in the exact same tone.  “You’re always acting like the worst possible outcome is the one destiny has set its sights on, and let me tell you, that is not a healthy way to live!  Where is Beatriz, she’d set your head straight—”

Shiro sighs heavily.  “B is still doing her thing, Coran.  You know that Zarkon still has her ear.  I don’t see her that often anymore.”

“Well, maybe you ought to.  This has all been so hard on you, Shiro, and I hate to see you like this.”

Yeah, well, he hates _being_ like this.  Spending his time split almost evenly between dissociation and panic, waiting for the other shoe to drop _again_ because it’s already done it once but that’s never enough.  Scraping up one good thing and then getting piled on by seven bad ones.  It’s _appalling_ as an existence.

Coran sighs.  “He’ll be okay.  There was a serious complication, but it got handled and there’s nothing for it now but to wait the last few months out.  You just have to keep your head up.  Right?”

He’s still not wrong, Shiro can give him that.  And yet, he can’t help it when he does the exact opposite, letting himself fall into one of the porch chairs with his head tipped forward until it’s nearly on his knees. 

Coran is silent for a moment, probably stroking his mustache again.  “Well, I guess that settles it—I’m on my way over.”

Ah, fucknuts.  This is not the time for this.  In fact, this is the WORST possible time for this.  Shiro grips the phone in terror.  “Wait, Coran, there’s no need for—”

“Nope!  Your protests have gone unheard.  I’m bringing a cheese tray.”

And there he goes, the line disconnecting.  Shiro flops backward this time, sinking down until he’s nearly falling off the chair.  It's common courtesy to warn the kids before Coran and his cheese tray—probably fifty percent blue cheese, ugh—show up, but he doesn’t have the energy for that.  Not that he has the energy for much of anything.

Which… is probably what prompted this, now that he thinks about it.  Coran just seems to Know when he’s reached his limit.  When he was a young, chubby kid he thought it might be a response to some kind of stress pheromone, but Coran is as accurate at 300 meters as he is at 3 so that can’t be it.  Later theories included Coran being a telepathic alien, Coran being able to taste electricity, and Coran having the foreknowledge of every event that would ever come to pass, but to this day Shiro just doesn’t know for certain. 

It’s fun to think about, in any case.  It takes his mind off of whatever crud is in there at the current moment.  And there is… a _lot_ of crud in there right now.

“Hey… Shiro?” asks a tentative voice.  “Coran called and said to give you this, so…”

When Shiro cranes his neck up from the ninety-degree angle it’s been forced into by the back of the chair, he can’t help but smile at the mug hovering there.  It's his Batdad mug.  The smell of chocolate wafts down to him.  God, he loves these kids.

“Thanks, Pidge,” he says, sitting up properly so he can grab it by the handle.  “You want to sit with me?”

“Oh, god, do I ever,” she says, taking that as her initiative to plop down on the other chair.  Apparently, she’s gauged the situation to be less dire than Coran made it sound, meaning she’s perfectly content to insert herself into the space and chill for a moment. 

“Coran is coming,” Shiro says, resisting the urge to cradle his head in his hands.  This counts as warning the kids, right? 

With a whine, Pidge kicks out one foot as if she can reach the horizon with it, staring between her pink, outstretched toes.  “We’re throwing it out this time.  I can’t live with all the bread smelling like moldy cheese.”

Shiro sips at his mug, letting the warmth seep through his tongue and to the back of his throat.  The air out here bites more than he wants to admit, the late October chill creeping around the edges of his clothing.  He didn’t notice during his extended emotional breakdown, but there are some fine tremors working up from his fingertips.  He presses closer to his mug.  “Something on your mind?” he asks.  He kind of wants there to be.  Just… something else to focus on for a bit.  A distraction.

“No,” Pidge grunts.  Her eyes rake up and down his profile.  “Just thought you ought to know that you look like shit.”

Not what he was looking for, but it works.  That’s not a fair assessment, he argues—he’s patchy from stress, but he has it on good faith that from the right angle the premature white streaks in his hair look suave as hell.  The scruff on his face?  Super manly, raises his Hot Dad meter by _at least_ thirty percent.  And don’t even get him started on the scar—

He’s interrupted by a cheerful call from the far end of the street.

“Shit,” he mutters.  “My reckoning is here.”

Pidge snorts, squinting at the figure rapidly approaching them.  “Christ, Shiro—that’s at least _two_ trays, _stacked_.  Are you happy with yourself?”

“ _No_.”

Catching the look of utter disgust on his face, Pidge giggles.  And then, bringing the odor of his favorite fancy cheeses with him, Coran arrives.

It’s not as bad as Shiro makes it out to be.  He really does love his father-figure.  Coran is a fixture of his life—when he lost his brother and his arm and even his dignity, Coran was still there to watch over him.  He wants to be that for Keith, for all the kids, _god_ does he ever.  But for now, maybe it’s okay that Coran is there to lean on.

The cheese trays are still a special brand of torture, though.  No one has quite enough gumption to outright reject them, even when Hunk, caught off guard, accidentally lets out a gag at the smell.  Undeterred, Coran starts to fix up dinner.  Thankfully, he only has to reheat some dishes Hunk had stored in the fridge, otherwise Shiro might have just walked out into the night in the hopes of scavenging something from the brush. 

He doesn’t mean for Coran to catch him hovering, but the sixth sense is kicking in again.  Coran gives him a look over a Tupperware container of curry.  “Relax, Shiro, I’ve got it covered,” he says, motioning Shiro back.

So, he does.  Or at least tries.  Really, he _does try_ to relax.  He works the stiffness out of his tendons by doing pushups in his room, letting the rhythm tap at his psyche like a swordsmith hammering a blade out straight.  He still catches himself listening at the pinnacle of each stroke, just to make sure everything is right in the rest of the house, but when nothing continues to go immediately wrong he makes himself take a deep breath and keep going.  It’s the closest to peace he’s gotten in… a while now.

 

* * *

 

For dinner, everyone settles down in the Red Room, spread out on the floor.  Keith is a little more cognizant now, but no one wants him to force himself out of bed when he doesn’t need to be.  He seems a little put out by the fact that he can’t even sit at the table, but the mild frustration is smoothed away as they migrate in, a plate at a time, Allura claiming a spot on the bed.

“Adult-only zone,” she says, shining a self-satisfied smirk when Lance starts to protest.  A grin slowly builds on Keith’s face.  Pidge, ignoring the rules as always, makes herself at home right between them.  Hunk settles on the floor with Shiro, Lance, and Coran, ignoring the ruckus in favor of eating like there’s no tomorrow.  Just like that, everything is normal.

Only… it’s still not really _right_.  Keith is still too pale, and Lance is talking a little too loud, and Shiro will never admit it but having a cheese tray in the room with them, even if it’s pushed innocuously off to one corner, just reminds him one more time in one more way that their struggle isn’t going to go away just like that.  This may not be some intergalactic war, but there are still battles weighed in blood dangling at their backs.  Keith is _scared_ , confidence dulled by apprehension, though it took the duress of blood and needle pricks for him to admit to it.  Shiro can’t let that go.  It’s barometric, the weight of clouds, too far away to brush off yet still hovering too close, too dark, too thunderous. 

 _‘Life isn’t fair,’_ Sargent Iverson’s voice says, echoing back and forth across all the years it’s been since boot camp.  And it’s not.  It’s really not.  There’s nothing that sinks Shiro faster into hopeless anger than letting himself realize how _unfair_ their world really is.  Three generations sit in this room, four if you count the one unborn, and each of them has had to epoxy together an existence from _fragments_ of the love, joy, _family_ that should have been theirs.

It’s just—he just—how is any of this okay?  Every angle he comes at it from leaves the reality to hit him a little harder with the fact that it’s _not_.  It’s not okay, they’re not okay, the world is _shi_ —

A cut of cheese smacks him dead on the nose, bouncing off into his bowl.

“Whoops,” says Pidge.  She lowers her spoon, twirling it casually.  Shiro stares, uncomprehending.  Did she just…?  And the cheese just…?  He’s trying to come up with a response when she accidentally fumbles and drops the spoon directly onto Allura’s hand.

“Are you kidding me?” Allura says, thrusting out the offending curry stain on her otherwise flawless skin.  Pidge shrugs, fighting off snickers.  Without breaking her stare, Allura reaches for the serving spoon in the bowl of lactose-free sour cream.  Before anyone can stop her, she flicks a sizeable glob right onto the side of Pidge’s face. 

For a moment everything is still.  Pidge’s smile drops off like a motorcycle over a cliff.  A blob of white slips off the lens of her glasses, hitting the bedspread with a splat.  Then, with reflexes from god knows where, Keith yells, “Duck down, Pidge!” and hurtles the rest of his curry at Allura.

Like they rehearsed it, Coran dives between Allura and the curry with a towel.  In the same motion, he grabs a random bowl and whips it in an arc, splattering everyone in the face.  Lance yelps, falling backwards—Keith grunts and flails—Shiro blinks rice out of his eyelashes, stunned.

“Oh, it’s on now,” Hunk says, shaking sauce out of his hair with a manic glint in his eye.

From there it’s nothing but pandemonium.  Hunk spits curry in a devastating blast, Pidge leaps off the bed to tackle Lance when he manages to throw a cheese-curd into her ear, Shiro and Keith team up in a clash against Allura, Coran, and the mice—it’s wild, boisterous.  No one holds back.  Keith’s unrestrained laughter, so rare an occurrence, rings about the room as Shiro shields him from Allura’s sticky, groping fingers.  He’s painted yellow with curry sauce, retaliating by dumping an entire cupcake down the back of her shirt.

By the time they’re cleaning rice out of every nook and cranny in the room, the moon is high and the hour late.  Shiro's chest hurts from laughing.  When Coran slips out the door that night, all the kids successfully put down to sleep, he doesn’t spare Shiro the knowing wink.

“Better now?” he asks, giving Shiro a good smack to the bicep.

“Yeah,” Shiro says, shaking his head.  “Better.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've started going over my pre-existing word limit per chapter but honestly... who cares haha. Sometimes you just Gotta. Thank you, everyone, for all the comments you've left! I really appreciate reading and responding!
> 
> Cheers!


	27. Six Month-iversary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lazy day, a scavenger hunt, and a bit of normalcy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not abandoned! Never abandoned! Check me out, updating right here right now :D

“Has it occurred to anyone that Keith is a Scorpio and that probably explains, like, everything about him?”

…

“Hunk.”

…

“Huuunk.”

“Hm, what?”

“Huuunk, pay attentiooon.”

“Oh, no, I am!  Tell me again, go ahead.”

“No.  It’s ruined now.”

“You know, Shiro is like… right there.”

Inwardly, Shiro sighs.  He’s been enjoying pretending to be focused on icing the top of the cake (Hunk is teaching him Technique, which only results in robo-hand gunking and/or burnt baking about 80% of the time).  It’s a great way to have a plausible excuse to avoid whatever nonsense is going on beside him.  It immediately becomes a no-go, unfortunately, as Lance turns directly to him and taps him on the shoulder.

“Hey, Shiro.  Shiro.  Has it occurred to you that Keith is a Scorpio and that explains, like, everything about him?”

Horoscopes are reserved for that rare sliver of time when a situation falls in the range of dire-but-not-dire-enough-to-start-invoking-Gods.  The last time Shiro went looking for horoscopes was… well, during the hospital trip he went straight to the Creator, so it must have been the Adoption Paper Dinner.  He frowns, trying to remember anything about Scorpio.  It’s a… fire sign, maybe?  What do fire signs do?

He’s saved by Pidge walking in and throwing a dusty boot in the sink.  “Man, grass sucks!” she whines.  “I’m going to go up to heaven just to make God run a debugger on this place because this is _ridiculous_.”

“Oh, Pidge!”  Lance leans over so far that he’s in danger of falling off the counter.  Without looking up from his mixing bowl, Hunk braces him with one solid shoulder.  “Pidge!  Pidgey!  Pidgeronni!  Pi—”

“One more and you die.”

Lance flinches on instinct.  Shiro gives Pidge a Look.  Hunk rolls his eyes.  Off in the other room, Allura laughs at something.  Just a normal day at House Voltron.

Which is to say, they’re prepping for Keith’s grand _Six Months At The House_ Celebratory Party.  _Which is to say_ , Hunk and Shiro are doing the _actual_ prep, and Lance is sitting with them providing… eh, he’ll call it emotional support.  The kid blew up exactly two balloons before he started complaining that air is too hard, so they set him up on the counter to hold Hunk’s unused utensils.  He’s been mostly scrolling along on his phone and watching Disney vine compilations, though there have also been periodic outbursts to let them all know some fact or another.  He was very insistent on letting them know something about Moana that Shiro has already forgotten as they waited for Pidge.  She was due to arrive back home from a softball game with a few of the neighborhood kids to give them the third pair of hands they badly needed.

Seriously, it’s just a normal day.  You know, stressing about normal things.

It’s mundane, boring almost.  There hasn’t been a new scare in, what, sixteen days?  This means that instead of camping out at Keith’s side, hovering awkwardly through his appointment with Ol’ Uncle Louie to barter about motorcycle parts, Shiro is gunking up his arm with frosting.  He’s returning to his Pre-Scare levels of tired.  His stasis.  Normalcy.  Still getting up twice a night or so, but the House is almost always quiet, and he hasn’t caught Keith out of bed except on trips to the bathroom.

Things are good.  If chronic exhaustion is his only problem, he’s doing well.

Judging by her dirt-smudged glasses and blotchy cheeks, Pidge can’t say the same.  She obviously doesn’t appreciate having to _exercise_ , _outside_ , in _nippy November weather_.  She scrubs her hands clean beside the soaking boot—the soggy thing is about to get banished to the laundry-corner the moment Hunk notices it—and lets everyone know how much she haaates the outdoors by digging at the dirt under her nails like it’s a personal affront.  Hunk starts assigning her tasks over the sound of running water.  He’ll get them back on track soon enough.  T-2 hours until Keith and Coran are dropped off by Coran’s engineer friend, Slav, who Shiro absolutely cannot _stand_ , and if nothing gets stalled between now and then they’ll have like eight-hundred trays of various gourmet bullshit done just in the nick of time.

Completely unaware that he’s the single largest obstruction in the flow of production, Lance repeats his Scorpio query to an unimpressed Pidge.  Without breaking her stride back across the room, she offers a counterpoint: “And has it occurred to _you_ that Florona is a Cancer and that she has more compatibility with Scorpios than Leos?”

That stumps him.  He’s hushed for a whole thirteen minutes thinking that over, during which time Shiro hears him get sidetracked and mutter something about how Florona has never been in the cancer ward, only the cardio ward, and only that one time.

And just like that, they hit a groove.  Hands move in sync on either side of Lance’s unmovable form.  Hunk moves things in and out of the oven.  Pidge minds a pot on the stove, stirring slowly.  Allura hums to herself.  Shiro dabs icing in little shaky swirls, and falls back into the zone.

 

* * *

 

 

Two hours on the dot and Keith arrives to a clean kitchen, two barely-hidden balloons, three better-hidden recording devices, four squeaking mice, and five lounging fakers who are pretending that there’s nothing up, what, why would you ask that?

“A mystery, hm?” Coran says, his eyes glittering as he deposits his load of clanking linen bags on the coffee table. 

Keith scoffs.  “Some mystery.  This is about my Six Month.”

“Whaaat!  Six months whom?  Don’t know what you’re talking about!” Lance sings, sinking farther into the couch.  He has one of the balloons shoved into his shirt, mimicking Keith’s seven-months-along belly. 

Keith aims a sour look at him, probably for the comment and the balloon both, before stalking over to the fridge and swinging it open.  Upon finding nothing of interest, he closes it again.  His nose rises as he spins, on the prowl.  “Okay, where is it?” he asks.

As planned, they all point in a different direction, Allura even pausing mid-text in order to jerk her thumb at the front door.

“You’re all assholes,” Keith mutters, striding toward the garage with the look of a wolf hunting prey.  Coran follows, ostensibly moving around boxes at Keith’s behest.  A moment later they appear again, Keith swinging for the back door.

“Is anyone else suddenly really glad that he’s, y’know, _our_ Keith?” Hunk whispers.  “Like damn, dude, it’s just some cake.  Chill out.  Also, maybe he needs a hint?”

On a scale from cool to warm he’s currently frigid.  He definitely needs a hint.

“Oh, why don’t you lie down for a bit?” Shiro calls in a voice he hopes isn’t too teasing. 

“Yeah, like he hasn’t been doing enough of that,” Lance drawls.

Keith scoffs.  “You’ve been sleeping more than I have, and I had _blood loss_.”

“Yeah, well, you—you—shut up!”

…

“Wow.”

“I know, Hunk.”

“That sucked, dude.”

“I _know_ , Hunk.”

“I’m serious, you can do way better than that.”

“Shhh already, I wanna see his face when he finds it!”

On high alert, Keith passes them all again, forking a watching-you gesture at Lance.  Lance just snickers, cradling his ‘belly’.  As he approaches the Red Room Keith slows down, glancing nervously over his shoulder.  No one makes eye contact, all eyes shifting away last-second to fake indifference.  He should really have more faith by now, Shiro thinks critically.  They didn’t plan a jump-scare or anything.  All of them are clearly in sight.  They didn’t even break out the confetti poppers this time, mostly because Shiro is 100% sure that Keith would have killed them all without blinking if they’d dared do it—he’s been finding rice in increasingly obscure crannies in his room all week, and he’s decidedly not thrilled about microscopic projectiles right now.

“Just open it already!” Pidge calls.  “Stop stalling at the doorknob, you noob!”

“You’re filming me,” he says, deadpan, ignoring the insult altogether.  Pidge grins, moving her phone from the stealth position in her lap to a more obvious location.  She gestures for him to get on with it.

With a deep sigh that Shiro is sure will turn up loud and clear on the recording, Keith throws open the door.  “I—oh.  Wow.”

An astute commentary on the nature of the mini-feast covering every available surface of his room.  Pidge holds her phone aloft, zooming gleefully in on Keith’s slack-jawed face.  Lance taps the table and then holds up three fingers, slowly easing them down one at a time.

Three, two, one…

“ _Happy Six Month-iversary_!”

 

* * *

 

 

No one is up for much besides lounging, thankfully, because Keith starts flagging pretty quick.  What with being due in early January and it now being officially several days into—ah— _November_ , he’s really feeling the strain.  Just over two months to go makes for a date far enough away to feel distant, but close enough to loom a little, an ominous entry waiting in the calendar app.  Everyone is in agreement—it’s time for him to take it easy.

Right now, that means kicking back with questionable sci-fi sequels and waiting for Allura to finish up her nails so she can do his, the last of his party treats cradled in his lap.  Post-dogpile for the food, everyone settles into the living room for cherished movies, chewing, and chatter, often all at once. 

As always, Shiro is in complete awe of Hunk’s spread.  In no particular order, there are: chocolate croissants, slices of spanakopita, onigiri, pho in custard cups, spring rolls, Rice Krispies treats, and _more_ , including some Vietnamese classics that have Shiro melting into the couch in pleasure.  He can barely remember the last time he ate Vietnamese food—was it when he and Coran took their trip to Vietnam to see his extended family?  Who even knows.  It’s fucking delicious, either way.  And it goes _great_ with Keith’s first movie pick, _The Matrix Reloaded_.

Keith doesn’t seem to get the same hit of nostalgia from the Korean finger-foods on his plate, and he has to fend of whines about how _you can’t pick a sequel, Keith, if you’re going to watch a series you have to watch the whole thing_ , but all the same, he’s definitely happy.  It’s obvious in the satisfied tilt of his head, the soft smile that never seems to fully disappear.  He’s right at home lounging in the blanket nest beside Pidge, on the edge of exhaustion after his short outing.  As Pidge laughs at the movie science and Lance whines loudly through the _sex scene_ , too flustered to speak clearly while the protags get it on on-screen, Keith yawns, eyes blinking like a content cat.

“Oooooh my god,” Hunk rambles over Lance, wincing.  “They’re going there... definitely going there… like all the way… that looks unsanitary, is that unsanitary?  There are candles like right there this is giving me so much stress—”

“Ah, youth.”  Coran holds up his customary glass of gin, calling, “Cheers!”  He ignores Shiro’s glare.  As does Allura, when she looks up momentarily from her nails to check out the fuss.  Her smile is too knowing for Shiro to be comfortable.  Her only comment is ‘nice’.

Keith twitches, muttering about baby kicks under his breath. 

“Awww, the baby wants Hunk’s cooking!” Lance calls, cooing softly in the general direction of Keith’s midsection.  Distracted from the _sex scene_ , he’s finally recovering from his mortification, his face 90% less red.  He immediately refocuses his efforts on getting Keith to laugh, which is good for Keith and his general health and also a sweet gesture, but _very bad_ for Lance’s flawless skin seeing as he keeps accidentally bumping into Allura and Allura ain’t having it.  The count of retaliation-swipes rises moment by moment, one of which nearly goes up his nose.  Shiro must admit, hot pink is a surprisingly good color on Lance’s skin tone. 

The Little Alien must not think so.  “Ow, stop,” Keith mutters, his brow pinching for the third time in the last minute.  He’s staring right at the screen but Shiro has a feeling that he’s missing most of the action.  “You’ll get it soon enough.  Patience.”

“It can’t be the same after it gets processed and passed down the umbilical cord,” Hunk says sadly.  “That’s probably what it’s like living in the Matrix.  I couldn’t even imagine having to eat all my food like that; I think that’s why I was a preemie.”

“Oh, same!” Keith says.  “To the preemie part, I mean.  I know why I came early and it wasn’t…”

For a moment he frowns, contemplating how much he wants to tell right now.  Classic overstated Matrix violence plays on the screen.  Before he can decide one way or another, he’s interrupted by what must be yet another forceful little foot.  His brows twitch yet again.

And then he’s staring incredulously at Pidge as she invites herself to feel.

“I think you’re lying,” is how she rationalizes it, blunt, when she realizes how closely everyone is watching her.  To the sound of slow-mo gunshots, she rests one small hand on the apex of Keith’s stomach and waits, a look of deep concentration on her face. 

Resigned, Keith moves the hand a few inches to the side, ignoring the mumbles of, “it’s a fetus, not a squirrel, there’s no way it kicks hard enough to— _oh sweet jesus there it is_.”

Almost instantaneously, waves of laughter roll across the room, drowning out the movie.  Shiro isn’t immune—he tries to hide it behind the nearest inanimate object, which happens to be his prosthesis, but judging by a not-so-subtle nudge from Lance he knows he’s failing. 

Pushed to tears by laughter that he’s not even bothering to hold back, Coran swipes at his face with the hand holding his gin.  Hunk keeps a close eye on the third plate of cheese samples in Coran’s other hand to make sure it isn’t going to hit the floor, ready to dive over at a moment’s notice, but Coran pulls himself together in time to say, “Ah, youth…” one more time.  He reclines further into the armchair, his voice heavy with a nostalgia that Shiro really doesn’t understand.  They’re kids.  Kids are dumb.  End of story. 

Keith, similarly unmoved by the theatrics, pops his last bite of cake in his mouth.  He chews slowly as Pidge’s expression finishes its descent into vague, unspeakable horror.  “Told you,” he says simply, shrugging.

“The animal kingdom is so fucked up…” she whispers, staring through her fingers at his shirt as if she can bore a hole through it to the baby beneath just to let it know how wrong its existence is.  The intensity of it is a little worrisome.  The girl really needs to get a grip on the fact that Mother Nature is what she is.

“Uh, excuse,” Lance says, lunging over to nudge his foot against her.  Allura grunts, still trying in vain to keep her nail polish brush straight.  Keith cranes his neck to see the TV.  “There is no ‘animal kingdom’ here.  The thing inside of Keith is an alien.  Because Keith is an alien.  A grumpy, Scorpio alien from, uh… Mars, probably.”

“I’m not Martian,” Keith says.  Pauses.  Shrugs.  “Though I do vote that we watch _The Martian_ next.”

“Yeah, no, can we back up for a sec?” Hunk asks, holding up both hands.  “Pidge, why would it be a squirrel?  That’s fucked up.”

“I didn’t say it was a squirrel, I just used that as a size comparison—"

Lance shoots up, knocking Allura’s brush clean from her fingers.  “KEITH IS A FURRY!” he blurts out, then grunts as Allura elbows him, hard. 

From the opposite side of the couch, Shiro grabs onto Lance in an attempt at mediation so they won’t miss the end of the movie.  “If Keith is a furry that’s fine, but I’d appreciate never hearing about it again,” he says.  Neutrality-and-disinterest is a tried and true method for keeping the peace.

Obviously, the exact opposite then happens.

With an explosive spray of spit, Lance bursts out laughing, writhing like a seizing octopus in Shiro’s grip.  “SHIRO!” he wheezes, tears beading in his eyes.  Coran is giggling again, watching.  “SHIRO, NOOO!  DON’T DO THIS TO ME!  KEITH, PLEASE TELL HIM THAT WAS A JOKE AND YOU’RE NOT ACTUALLY A FURRY!”

“Uh…?  I don’t even know what that is,” Keith admits, eyes huge as he stares past Allura’s flailing elbow and Lance’s kicking feet, the movie just about abandoned seeing as no one can focus long enough to retain plot.  He doesn’t look back at the TV even as dead silence descends.  Everyone is frozen.  In slow motion they come to life as one aghast hivemind of a monster, all heads swiveling over with the same incredulous expression. 

Oh, god.  _What has Shiro_ _done._

“Not even a _little_?” Hunk asks, his mouth open in shock.  “Not even a teenie-weenie itty-bitty little guess?”  A bite of pastry is just about ready to fall out of his mouth and onto the floor, that’s how shocked he is. 

Squinting, Keith shakes his head.

“ _Sweet, innocent child_ ,” Pidge drones in the deepest voice she can manage, staring toward the heavens.  Lance is now wheezing with laughter.

Keith rolls his eyes.  “Yeah, thanks.  Anyone want to share with the class?”

No, they do not.  They are going to leave him hanging, wondering, always in perpetual agony as he waits for the Keith Furry Jokes to hit again.  And hit they do.

Allura finally finishes the French tips on her left hand and settles down in front of Keith to ask what he wants, which immediately prompts a suggestion of claws to match his furry lifestyle.  Allura has to cap her polish so she doesn’t spill it from laughing so hard. 

That’s it.  That’s it for all of them.  They’re officially on Shiro’s shitlist.  They’re getting disowned.  The second their freshly modified birth certificates come in the mail he’s stamping them with a ‘return to sender’ and shipping them right back off.  Except for Keith’s, anyway, seeing as he is indeed an innocent creature and is also getting more and more confused by the second.  He deals with it by ignoring the laughter and asking Allura to paint two of his nails, the pinkies, with her bright fuchsia polish.

“You’re not even going to do them all?  What is the _point_?” Lance demands. 

“Must be the Scorpio in him,” Hunk says wisely.

Lance smacks himself in the face.  “Of _course_ it is.  I forgot who I was talking to for a moment there.”

Keith shrugs, a smile tugging at his lips despite the teasing.  He fights to keep it down.  There’s a calmness about him, even in Allura’s inflexible grasp.  Even with Pidge now leaning across him to show Coran a circuit-diagram on her phone and Lance stretched awkwardly over the arm of the couch to rest a foot on his shoulder.  Hunk holds up his drink for him while his hands are occupied with the polish, both of them giggling as one of the mice bridges the gap from hand to head with a little flying leap, and it’s _good_. 

It’s organic, sweet, untarnished by anxiety and panic.  They move in sync, the lot of them, relaxing into each other.  They tease, trade jokes, launch into an off-key chorus—complete with air guitar and drum solos—and when Keith starts to squirm in the middle of them, they ease back again without a word, falling back into a looser configuration as easily as synchronized swimmers.

It’s a lazy evening, after a lazy day, coming straight from a string of lazy days.  Lance is depressed but dealing with it, Allura is hanging on, Pidge and Hunk and Keith all have their projects to get by, and Shiro thinks, all alone to himself in the corner of the room, that they might just get through this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forget what my wordcount limit per chapter was. Rip. Let me know if there are errors or Weird Shit and I'll definitely fix it :D


	28. Week Twenty-Seven: The Branch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keith catches them all, Hunk uncovers some dirt, and Allura tells a story.

When he was a kid living in a house with Coran and all his foster siblings, there was one time that Shiro remembers very clearly when a tree branch in their backyard fell to earth. 

They had this massive cottonwood, similar to the one that sits just outside House Voltron, only larger and more twisted.  And one night, during a wind storm, the tree took a hit.  He was lying in bed, Alfor in the bunk above, when from amidst the howling wind came a mighty _crack_ and a crash that seemed to shake the foundations of the house.  They walked outside for the first time afterward, him and Alfor and Zarkon all tailing behind Coran, and there were displaced leaves taking up half the yard, like a tumorous growth that sprang up overnight.  It was utterly alien. 

But the thing was, the branch that split away took a good section of the trunk with it.  It was still very much alive, even though it had splintered off—it was still connected to the roots.  Coran refused to cut it off and be done with it.  So they just… got used to it.  Lived with it.  It became part of their lives.  Sure, sometimes they had to crawl around it to find the squash vines that escaped the garden, and more than once they lost a Frisbee to the massive cluster of foliage, but for the most part, it was just _there_.  And that was normal.  Until, that was, someone came visiting and pointed out how obviously bizarre it is to have an eighth of a tree lying crossways across the yard like a toppled monument.

Right now, Shiro isn’t thinking about the branch.  Hasn’t all day, or the day before, or in any of the days preceding those.  He has other things to think about, more day-to-day kind of things that require more attention.  Things like Keith, and his general worries about the Little Alien that come and go depending on how much time he has alone to contemplate.

It’s just how it is.

Some days, if you worry about the branch, you miss the school bus coming to the front of the house.

Which is why Shiro is thinking about Voltron.  He’s juggling kids—Allura has been coming out of her room more but that also translates to inviting Rolo around more, and Rolo + Hunk is not a good combo.  Pidge does fine with just about everyone, but she can’t be moved even if Lance wants space for floor lounging.  And space Lance wants—he’s taken to draping himself across every available surface, dramatically and with great, heaving sighs. 

If there’s a good side to having a low energy Lance moping about the house, it’s that Keith is never left alone.  All the groans and complaints are (almost) worth it to keep Keith occupied and his mind away from distressing thoughts.  Because if there’s one thing they need, it’s to keep Keith occupied, and if there’s one person who can do it, it’s _Lance_.

It’s a Monday night, and Lance is teaching Keith how to play Pokemon Go.  It’s going well.

“Look, just— _pick one_.  You’re not signing away your life, you can catch the other ones later.  Though I’m going to judge you a little bit if you go straight for the fire-type because that would be just _typical_.”

Keith glances over at Lance’s phone.  “Uh… what does this do again?”  He may or may not be playing dumb, but if he is he’s doing it so well that even Shiro is having trouble telling.

“For the love of god, Keith, it’s your starter and it gives you candy.  How many times do we have to go over this?  _Ah-bup-bup_!  No touchy with the grease-fingers, wash your hands you heathen.”

Keith groans loudly, putting down his motor oil cleaning rag in order to catch the wet-wipe that Pidge chucks over from the kitchen.  “What do I do again?” he asks, turning to the phone again and sounding moderately invested at best.

“You just—look, here.  You grab this and… not _drop it_ , Keith!  Who raised you!”

There’s no way he isn’t doing this on purpose.  “What is the point of this?” he asks, looking up at Lance with an eyebrow raised.

Lance nearly screams.  “To enjoy yourself, Keith.  There is something wrong with you.  _God_ , you’re worse than Shiro, even!  Why don’t you know how to have fun?!”

Shiro, busy doing his daily push-ups in the Black Room with the door open, rolls his eyes.  Tact, Lance.  That’s a thing.  Fortunately, Keith seems as uninterested in humoring petty insults as he is in catching them all.  Keyword: _seems_.  Shiro is aware of the third-hand old-school DSlite hidden in his room and the fact that with Pidge's help he’s stolen more than one game from Lance’s hoard, which is the number one piece of evidence that it’s all a façade. 

There’s a pregnant pause in the other room (pregnancy pun, funny, Shiro makes a note to tell that one to Hunk) before Keith makes it into the actual game.

He promptly dies laughing.

“LANCE OH MY GOD LOOK AT IT,” he cackles.  Shiro pads forward on all fours, peering down the hall in time to see him doubling over his belly and holding his phone out at arm’s length.  Laugher rolls off of him as Lance takes the device and studies it.

“Not sure why this is so funny to you, but okay.  I can work with it.”

“No, Lance… it’s little—FISTS, OH MY GOD.”

Lance huff-snorts, fighting the contagious laughter.  “Keith.  Keith, please.  This is serious.  We’re having a serious gaming session.  I can’t believe you.  No, come on, stop _laughing_ —”

He doesn’t, and soon enough both of them are giggling together.  With flushed cheeks and shaking shoulders, Keith gulps air.  “It’s—it’s like the—fucking, Little Alien, just punching away—”

“ _Nooo_ —"

“— _the Little Mankey_ —”

They both dissolve, hitting the floor.  Lance rolls back and forth howling while Keith lays on his back, grinning up at the ceiling.  He’s hiccupping a little, both hands pressed to his belly, the phone abandoned at his side.  Shiro shakes his head.

“That’s disturbing, Keith,” Pidge says, scandalized, from the doorway across the hall.  “Honestly what the fuck.  I’m imagining it and it’s horrible, frankly.”

He wipes at his eyes, struggling to sit up again.  “I dunno, didn’t you feel it the other day?  Sometimes it’s like the Little Alien is using my stomach as a punching bag—”

“I’m OUT.”  Pidge raises both hands, disappearing into the kitchen with a shudder.

Shiro laughs to himself, then hastily crawls back out of sight as Lance looks around for the sound.  Stationed in the middle of the floor Shiro finishes his set, doing his usual head-to-toe check-in checklist.  Good, today.  He’s always tired but he’s been worse, and he doesn’t think this is an episode.  His hand and feet feel nice and limber, no numbness or dizziness or spotting vision.  He finishes up with some stretches before he trots out into the kitchen to mix up some hot chocolate to bring out for Keith, to help with the whole ‘punching bag’ situation.  Pregnancy is brutal, and it’s only getting worse for him.

“Here, bud,” Shiro says, crossing the room to drop the hot mug off. 

He’s literally holding it out in his prosthesis, handle-first for Keith to take, when there is a wail from the kitchen. 

Shiro jumps, heart suddenly pounding, his fingers clutching the mug.  A curse pours from his lips as a bit spills over the side.  In slow motion, as dramatic as can be, Shiro rotates toward the kitchen in search of the origins of the noise that caused this mess… just in time to see a package tumble from Hunk’s slack grip.  He’s staring out at them, eyes wide in horror, with a look on his face like he just accidentally seasoned something with rat poison.  “No, _don’t—_!” he yells, already in motion, eyes wild, and Shiro turns back around in slow motion in time to see Keith reaching for the mug again, his fingers literally inches away when Hunk snatches it away with a rather graceful spin that keeps all the contents where they should be.

“Uh?” Keith manages to say as Hunk holds up one finger and takes a dainty sip.  Shiro is in about the same boat, confused as fuck about everything that's going on right now.

Hunk doesn't elaborate.  Instead he focuses very intently on the mug in his hands.  Everything is silent except for Allura’s music.  Then, like something straight out of a 30’s black and white drama, Hunk is collapsing onto the coffee table, moaning something about being a fraud and something something _scandal_.  It’s hard to hear when his face is pressed against the wood like that.  He beats a fist against the table’s poor leg.

“So… am I allowed to drink this or…?”  Keith goes to lift the mug from where Hunk deposited it. 

Hunk snatches it again, nearly growling.  “This… this is blasphemy.  I’ve _failed you_.  This should _never_ have left my kitchen.”

Everyone in the vicinity stares in confusion, except Allura, who has appeared in her doorway to watch the exchange like it’s an MMA prize match.  That is to say, she’s enjoying it rather a lot.  Even the mouse on her shoulder (Chulatt?  Plachu?  Shiro still can’t keep them straight) seems to be leaning forward, engrossed.

Pidge walks back in, focused on the label of a can of flavoring that Hunk uses for the hot chocolate mix.  She shrugs apologetically at Keith.  “We just found out there’s technically dairy in it,” she says.  “Though honestly, this serves you right for calling the Little Alien a fucking _mankey_.  I’d come to your aid, but well…”

“Oh, come on!” he whines, looking between Pidge and Hunk with a puppy-face.  “It’s never caused a problem before, please?”

“You have no respect for your body OR for my competence,” Hunk says darkly. 

Keith starts to protest, but Lance leans over and shakes his head.  “Don’t.  You’re digging yourself a hole,” he says, knowingly.

“You people and your insistence on eating things you shouldn’t,” Hunk says, still dark, still staring stormily at the mug in his hand like it stretched out and stung him.  “First it’s Lance and the spicy beans—”

“Hey!”

“—and then it’s Keith and the shrimp—”

“Okay in my defense I hadn’t eaten shrimp in, like, six years.”

“—and _then_ Shiro and his pretzels—"

“Whoa now, I’m still technically allowed to have pretzels,” Shiro says, taking his turn to guard himself against the accusations.  They better leave his junk food out of this or he's pulling out the big guns, thank you very much.

“—and now, now!  Keith and the dairy!  …I can’t with all of you!”  Hunk crosses his beefy arms and rounds on Shiro, one hand poking out to point at him emphatically.  “Technically means nothing for your diagnosis and you know it, Shiro!”

Shiro sighs, rubbing his forehead.  His diagnosis.  Right.  Well, the chronic illness one, anyway, to go with his head trauma, PTSD, and the amputation.  He forgets that he has that one sometimes—the year before the wreck is still pretty hazy.  He raises his head to apologize to Hunk, maybe offer to help out more with meal planning, only to come face to face with two horrified expressions.

Oh.  Whoops.

 

* * *

 

So, here’s the thing.  The thing about the diagnosis.  The diagnosis he has.  It’s not that he keeps it a secret—he’s no prude about his pills.  He takes his medication for it with his anti-anxiety meds in the evenings and it’s routine.  Routine and… invisible.  The kids don’t usually think twice about it and he’s never bothered to make a fuss of it.  _He_ doesn’t even think about it most days—he forgets that there are people who don’t know about it until it comes up somehow.

It’s like that tree branch.  There but unthought of, unevoked, existing patiently in the background until it becomes relevant again.  Watching Keith’s face twist into panic, Shiro winces in sympathy.  Pidge, stationed beside him, has schooled herself into indifference, but she’s not making eye contact in favor of slapping pointedly away at her keyboard.  Shiro wilts.  He forgot that Keith and Pidge didn’t know about the branch.  It just never came up, what can he say?

God, that sounds shitty.  He _swears_ he didn’t mean to.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Keith demands.  “Wait, what do you… do you have a prognosis?  Like a—a time-lim—?”

“Ah.”  Shiro cuts him off without meaning to, scrubbing his hand down his face.  He glances over at Pidge.  She’s been here for nearly a year and a half, _how_ he forgot to have this conversation… he gives Hunk a desperate look, silently begging for a resolution to the hot chocolate situation so they can have a proper vigil.  Hunk shrugs back helplessly.  Shiro takes a deep breath.  “I… don’t want to sugar-coat this because that isn’t fair to you.  And I don’t want you to think that I was withholding this information for any rea—”

“Shiro, I don’t care.  Please, just… please tell me now.”

Pidge nods along with Keith’s words, staring hard at her laptop screen.  “This is why you get all those appointment reminders, isn’t it?” she asks, sharp and pointed.  She’s probably been hanging onto this information for a while.

Swallowing, Shiro focuses himself, ignoring for the moment that she’s permanently tapped into his email.  At the very least, she didn’t hack into his confidential medical records.  It’s not much, but it’s something.  He nods.  “I have multiple sclerosis, MS.  It’s episodic.  Every few months—usually a little longer than a few—I’ll have a flare-up, but my medication keeps it under wraps most of the time.  …Uh, what else…”  He taps his robo-fingers on his hip, biting a lip.  “Oh—I’ve known about it for about eight years now.  I was diagnosed a little after I joined the military, just before my accident.  They’re saying the same things now that they did back then.”

Keith breathes out.  “Which are…?” he asks.

Oh, god, his voice is shaking.  Shiro sits himself down beside Keith and leans over, nearly shoulder to shoulder but keeping a respectable distance, to gauge how well he’s handling this.  The answer: not good.  “Hey, bud.  I’m here.  I’m good right now.  The episodes are what they are, and they haven’t really gotten worse since I found out, which is a good sign.  It may get worse, and I’ll let you know if that happens.  Okay?”

Another breath.  “What—what are the symptoms?”

Shiro runs through his checklist again, more intentionally this time.  “Nothing too major.  Some dizziness, weakness, numbness.  I feel shaky and everything gets kinda blurry.”

Breath.  “How often—?”

“I haven’t had a flare-up since last year.”

Breath.  “Oh.”

Shiro pauses there, letting them both soak it in.  Hunk is edging back into the kitchen, face twisted like he’s sucking on a sour gummy worm.  Ah.  Shiro is going to have to make sure he knows he didn’t do anything wrong later when he can catch him.

“So!  Ready for another not-so-secret?” Shiro says, a little too loudly.  He leans back, bracing his hands on his thighs.  The distrust in Keith’s eyes prompts him to forego the teasing.  “I’m also gay,” he announces into the vacuum, grinning as Pidge’s shoulders start to relax and she rolls her eyes.  Keith’s eyes shoot over, staring.

“Wha—you are?” he demands.  He’s searching Shiro’s eyes for any sign of a lie.

“Yup!  Not all of my secrets are deep and dark.”  Shiro grins, watching the tension in the room melt back off, slow but steady.  Ah, good.  He was getting worried for a second there.  Now everyone knows about the branch—everything is okay.

…Until Allura butts in to announce, to Lance’s utter delight, “Yeah, no, he’s a disaster gay, Keith.  He stays in the closet so that no one knows just how much of a mess he is.”

Shiro deflates.  An embarrassed warmth is spreading across his face and up to his ears.  “…Hey, now,” he manages, but she’s grinning a wicked grin.

Lance, the snot, teams up with her.  “You can’t deny it, Shiro,” he sings, kicking one foot up in the air and pointing his toe.

Allura snickers.  “He had a _boyfriend_ once.”

Dragging both his hands down his face, Shiro groans.  What did he do to deserve this?  “You were, like, ten.  You knew nothing.  You were young and innocent and—isn’t this my story to tell, anyway?”

“No.  So anyway, it was back when Shiro was learning how to fly planes—”

And off she goes.

Which—fine, let her tell the story about Adam and Shiro’s diagnosis and the fact that Adam was a contributing factor in Shiro’s discharge from the military.  She was literally ten at the time, and she heard it all from her dad who had a habit of exaggerating things to make a good story.  If anyone can tell the story without going full dark humor to prevent himself from breaking down into tears (Shiro), it’s her. 

He zones out a little listening.  He knows the story well enough—he was there, after all, and his memory loss from the accident only went back about a year or so before the crash.  He’s kind of grateful for that, actually, seeing as he knows that in the gaps of his memory lie a few pretty nasty fights that he frankly doesn’t _want_ to remember.

It started with two young, starry-eyed cadets—that’s the important part.  Two starry-eyed cadets and a little thing called Don’t Ask Don’t Tell.

Lost in memories, Shiro lets himself sigh and close his eyes as she goes on.  The end of it is so jumbled… what he has, he pieced together an event at a time from anyone he could get information out of, and those were few and far between as they dealt with Allura acting up and a funeral for Alfor and the police statements and Zarkon and his arm and lung and… and that, too, is like a branch fallen in a familiar place.  A massive shape obscuring the shadows, covering them, but never fully concealing them. 

He can still see all the darkest places if he peers through the leaves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ;D


	29. Week Twenty-Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cabin fever, fall days, and late night cries.

The House is going mad.

Oh, for a while it was fine.  Keith stayed home with Allura, occasionally popping out to run an errand with Coran or meet up with a teacher at the Café, and it was fine.  He and Allura occupied themselves during the day and Lance took up his attention from the afternoon onward, Hunk giving him easy tasks to help out with the bike whenever possible.

Then, the restlessness kicked in, and oh, was it _so not fine anymore_. 

Without the stamina required for the more intense mechanics work, Keith took on his homework with his usual single-minded enthusiasm.  Then he took on sketching diagrams of tune-ups he wanted to do on the bike for Hunk to follow when he got home.  Then he took on sorting and organizing all the diagrams, of which there were dozens, all neat and well-drafted.  After pinning them to a wall in the Red Room and prompting both an impressed whistle and a promise to look for a nice-sized cork board from Shiro, he just scoffed in annoyance and left to find something else to do, bulldozing anyone who crossed his path.

Which _would be_ fine, only it hasn’t let up and now every time someone tries to get out of Keith’s way they run into Lance, who is lying in the middle of the hallway spinning a fidget spinner at maximum speed, irritation bleeding off of him.

If they were a good combination just a week ago, it stands to reason that their relationship is a complete mess now.  Where Keith is restless about being all but house-bound, Lance is anxious in anticipation for his annual trip to Cuba for Thanksgiving week, which is coming hard and fast and only seven days away.  They’re more or less refusing to talk to each other, a move prompted by a belly-aching Lance when Keith wouldn’t sit through a third rant about _The Iron Giant_.  Peace and quiet may go hand in hand, but silence and tension go just as well.

And so, the rest of the House has been swept into madness.

Shiro knows that in part, this whole thing has to do with what happened last week.  It takes a while to adjust to big changes—he would know.  There isn’t really anything he can do about it.  They’re all in different boats but they’re heading in the same general direction into the deep seas of uncertainty.  He and Keith especially, it seems, as Keith’s due date approaches and Shiro keeps chugging along, checking every day to make sure his MS is in check. 

Keith sits in the living room, yet another sheet of graph paper in hand, scribbling away.  “Lance, could you throw me an eraser?” he calls after a moment.

Lance grunts, the same response he’s had the last four times Keith tried to talk to him.

Keith’s nostrils flare.  He’s staring down at his paper, knuckles turning white on his pencil.  “Great,” he mutters.  “I really appreciate that.  Really, really do.”

Lance grunts again.

Pidge, Hunk, and Shiro all prepare for an outburst.  Keith is going to break, that much is evident just judging by the tic in his jaw and the fact that he’s been counting his breaths in and out more often than not.  The only thing up in the air is when it’ll happen.

If, that is, Allura didn’t come out of left field and do it first.

“Okay, everybody in the damn car!” she abruptly shouts, the door to her room slamming open.  She is five foot eleven inches of pure Amazonian wrath, her wild, waist-length hair crowned in a wreath of mice, a snarl on her face.  Lance jumps, scrambling to get out from underneath her boots.  Keith drops his pencil and stares.

She doesn’t say it again.  Instead, she walks over, stuffs Keith into a jacket, and starts hauling him to his feet.

“Wait,” Pidge asks, clutching her laptop close.  “What do you mean _everyone_ —"

Allura doesn’t even _have_ to repeat herself.  Her glare is information enough.  Sometimes it’s obvious that she spent most of her time growing up with Alfor and Shiro, two nerdy, mild-mannered people-pleasers.  Other times—like now, for instance—it’s apparent that she also spent a lot of time riding on Coran’s oak-strong shoulders, ordering around the various military-men and eccentric retirees that turned up at his house.

“ _Hop to_ ,” she says, her eyes taking on the same sharpness that Coran’s do, her voice sibilant in rage.

Pidge hops to.

With a series of pushy nudges, Allura gets Keith to the threshold of the door, where he shrugs at Shiro as he struggles to zip his jacket up over the baby bump.  Hunk is clattering around in the kitchen, throwing god knows what into a duffel bag.  Lance, moaning, pushes himself off the floor and slouches over, stuffing his fidget spinner into his pocket in favor of a spinner ring.  Pidge, half crouched beside the armchair, is frantically saving the six thousand documents she has open, muttering the whole time.  Shiro shoves his arm through the armhole of a sweater.

In five minutes flat, Allura has the entire house mobile, forcing everyone to follow as she leads Keith out the door.  Hunk, a few minutes behind, whines at them.  She lays on the horn until he jogs out, duffel slung over his back, panting a little.  The last one out is Lance, dragging his feet until he can sling himself across the backseat of the van, his head in Hunk’s lap, squishing him against the window.

“Okay, let’s go,” Allura says primly, as if anyone has any goddamn clue what the hell is going on.  She is a force to behold.  Shiro reaches for the hand-hold on the passenger side and curls the fingers of the prosthetic around it as tight as they’ll go.

Just in time.  She’s nice enough to back them out slowly, but the moment she’s facing forward she _punches it_.  Lance flails against the back of his seat, struggling to find a place to put a seatbelt that will let him stay horizontal.  Pidge sighs, holding her laptop aloft.  Keith laughs out loud, the tension trickling out of his face.  Leaning forward over the steering wheel, Allura grins.  The shock of it doesn’t keep the bickering at bay for long, but Shiro can taste a sense of peace hovering just beyond the horizon—it’s waiting for them.  He’s not sure what Allura’s plan is, but… she knows them.  She knows this town.  And, though she’s spent the last year and a half fighting against it, this town is in her blood—it’s waited patiently for her return.

Shiro keeps that in mind as landmarks whizz past his window.  The ride itself is… nice… but it’s when they’re skirting the edges of town that Shiro realizes where they’re going and the peace settles fully on his soul.  It’s been a long, long time since he came out here.  He glances over at the driver’s seat, waiting to catch Allura’s eye, but she seems to know what he’s doing and keeps her gaze on the road in front of them. 

“Allura,” he says, voice low.  Her eyes flick over for a single instant, the attention of the four mice crammed into her collar following as they twitter at him.  She knows he knows, and it’s… it’s okay.

He leans back, and a smile dances on his lips as they drive toward the little picnic destination where Alfor proposed to Allura’s mom near two decades ago.

 

* * *

 

The leaves are just about done falling for the year, naught but a few stubborn ones still holding on.  The wind bites, but not enough to necessitate the use of gloves.  It’s a charming autumn day, by all accounts.  As Allura pulls into the little gravel lot by the trailhead, she takes a pause.  Everyone gets ten seconds to soak in the chill on the wind and the once-a-year exclusive color palette spread out in front of them before she breaks them all out of their contemplation by barking, “Hunk, you packed food, right?”

“I’m not a pack mule,” he says, glaring.  He pushes his lip out in a pout and crosses his arms.  He’s wearing a t-shirt and a loose scarf, which makes him look a little ridiculous.  He may not be a pack mule but he sure is a space heater.  He melts after a moment, letting his arms flop down in the face of Allura’s unwavering glare.  “…But yes, fine, my first instinct whenever someone tells me we’re going out on some mysterious journey is to pack food.  Are you happy?”

Allura grins like a wolverine, leaping out to collect the blankets from the trunk and leaving the rest of them to straggle their way out to the picnic tables like a line of flustered ducklings who imprinted on the wrong animal and are just tagging along in her wake.  True to his word, Hunk pulls out a small but bound-to-be-satisfying picnic from the depths of his duffel bag.  They settle down, Keith and Pidge on the table instead of the benches, everyone facing away from everyone else to just soak in the nature all around.

Well, except for Pidge, who decides to glare at the nature instead.

For a long, much needed moment there’s nothing to say.  Not even when the wind picks up and the leaves on the ground start to swirl and Lance starts to softly hum a Spanish lullaby that he brought with him from beyond the muck and grime of a deadly mudslide.  Not even when Shiro shares another barely-there glance with Allura, the heavy weight of long-lost family resting on their shared shoulders.  Not even when Lance crawls up behind Keith, who is cross-legged on the table, rubbing his belly as the indigestion kicks in, and starts to slowly massage his shoulders all while singing words in Spanish, both of them looking absently out at the beautiful landscape as if that’s all there is to see, to feel, within grasp.

It's a good day, even if Keith and Lance started it on opposite sides of the Grand Canyon and Hunk gets carsick on the way back through the hills into town.  Hunk groaning into the wind of an open window, the other kids holding a burping contest to take his mind off of it, Keith laughing because the Little Alien won’t let him get enough air down to participate properly… 

Yeah, good day. 

Yes, even when Shiro is woken at 1AM by tentative footsteps padding into the Black Room.

“Hhhzzwha’s up?” he manages to say around a yawn.  He flops over onto his back, his stump smacking the sheets slightly harder than intended.  Thankfully the shape in the darkness doesn’t seem to notice that or his wince.  It doesn’t hurt much these days, aside from the occasional phantom pain, but the reflex has held on rather tenaciously.

“Can I sleep in here?” asks a tentative voice.  Shiro gathers what little wits he has at this time of night and scoots on over, making room for the figure and a half who crawls in after him.

For a moment Keith is silent, before he offers a timid, “Sorry, Lance is…”

“Being Lance?” Shiro guesses.  Lance is an anxious, finicky mess this time of year. 

Keith sighs.  “…More or less.”

It’s explanation enough.  Keith settles in, wincing a little and twisting to relieve some of the pressure on his back. 

Shiro listens in the darkness for a long moment, waiting for Keith to relax a bit before he reaches over to press his knuckles to Keith’s spine, pushing down toward the small of his back until he hears the soft sigh that means he hit the tight spot.

“After… after the Little Alien comes,” he says a moment later, unprompted.  He’s not stiff, but he’s not all the way relaxed anymore, his shoulders hunched a little in the darkness.  Shiro hums to let him know he’s listening.  “I’ll be able to help more.”

“You can still sort the mail if you really want something to do, but you’ve been ordered by a bona fide doctor to rest.  Milk it, buddy.  Lance would kill to get to stay home from school.”

Keith shakes his head, and though he’s facing away Shiro knows the pinch between his eyebrows.  “That’s not what I mean, Shiro.  I mean yeah, I’ll help with house chores, but also when you—if you—you know.”

Ah.  Yes.  Shiro’s been waiting for this to come back up.  Keith is nothing if not insistent, and he’s obviously had this on his mind for the past week straight.  “You don’t need to help,” he says, in a voice that he hopes is more reassuring than tired.  “You’re okay, and it’s not a big enough deal to worry about it like this.”

Pushing out a breath in a way that clearly states he’s not about to follow that advice, Keith kicks a heel softly at Shiro’s shin.  Shiro grunts.  “…Fine, but… if you need me, you’ll come to me, right?”

“I’ve survived _how_ long now with a debilitating degenerative illness and not died?” Shiro snarks.  “Seven whole entire years?  More, if you count the time before before my diagnosis.  I think I’ll be okay, bud.  Let’s worry about you.”

They’re going to hit an impasse soon, if the sound of Keith groaning is anything to go by.  His frustration about enforced bedrest is going to butt heads with Shiro’s blasé approach to his MS.  “I mean after the Little Alien, though.  When I can do more,” he says, shuffling again.  The curve of his belly is just visible in the darkness.

Shiro sighs.  “Keith—”

“Just let me—let me be there for you like you’ve been there for _me_.  Shiro, I…”  His voice cracks, floating on the blanket of still nighttime air.  “…That’s all I want, Shiro, I just want to repay you even a little for what you’ve done for me.”

They have another moment of silence, just the two of them echoing the tranquility of the House, but instead of there being nothing to say Shiro knows they’re both holding on to something huge, immense, that just wants to come up and out and possibly smother them both with the harsh reality of Truth.  Keith is scared, it’s so easy to see.  It’s written on every plane of his face, every bend and fold of his body.  He’s scared that he won’t have time after the baby comes—that something will go wrong with the C-section or that he’ll lose himself or even, still, that he’ll be sent packing once his one objective is complete.  He wants to make up time now, before it’s lost to him, and it’s so plain to see that Shiro feels his breath catch in his throat.

“…Please say something, you’re freaking me out,” Keith says, as if sensing his imminent demise.

Shiro sniffs heavily, slinging his left arm over Keith’s shoulder and threading his fingers through thick black hair.  “I’ve told you before,” he says, his voice suddenly thick with unshed tears.  “I’ve told you once and I’ll tell you a million times, you don’t have to pay me back for anything.  You _deserve_ this, okay?  You deserve a place you feel safe and family that gets on your nerves but would drop everything in an instant to make you feel better and—”

Keith laughs under his hand, a wet sound that makes Shiro want to drag him closer, hold on tighter.

“—I mean it, I mean everything, you’re having a shit time right now and it sucks and you shouldn’t have to pay me back just for making sure you aren’t flat-out miserable every second of every day.”

“Quit saying shit like that,” Keith says, and the shaking from his laughter is getting slower and his exhales wetter and Shiro feels bad that he’s made the kid cry but he’s crying too and fuck, Lance is going back to Cuba in less than a week to visit the scattered remains of his family, many of whom tried to take him in after the mudslide but couldn’t due to finances or space or infirmity and… god, Shiro would do anything for these kids.  Including but not limited to issuing wet apologies through bouts of laughter, snaking his hand across Keith to fetch the tissue box off the bedside table, and rubbing Keith’s back until he’s succumbed to the rhythm of sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cheers!


	30. Week Twenty-Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A fledgling takes flight, yearly video calls, and a bit too much forgetfulness.

Ever since an incident involving the Transportation Security Administration, Lance, and a pudding cup, Shiro has had what you could call… _reservations_ about letting Lance go through airport security on his own.  Though he does it every November, and mostly without incident, it’s impossible to shake the sheer embarrassment of watching security walk Lance off the premises with chocolate smeared all over his face.  Since that fateful day, Shiro has taken it upon himself to all but baby Lance up to and through the security line, keeping an eye on him all the way through to the other side, just to make absolutely sure that nothing happens.  It would be a pity if he couldn’t go see his extended family because of one lapse in impulse control.  Also… the chocolate smears.  They’re haunting.

Today is no different.  Their arrival at the airport goes like this:

-park in the short-term lot

-get Lance and his suitcase out of the truck

-fend off the first slew of tears and _I-miss-you-already_ ’s

-walk through check-in

-fend off a second slew

-promise not to tell Keith he cried

-do some guided jumping jacks to help shake off the excess _nervous-to-see-his-familia_ energy

-walk up to the security line

-push Lance in

-contemplate the fact that birds sometimes literally push their babies out of the nest when they think they’re ready to fly

-that’s a little fucked up

-watch with baited breath as Lance chit-chats with the security agent (they haven’t seen the Pudding Cup Agent since the Pudding Cup Incident, but Shiro still crosses his fingers every time)

-wince when Lance inevitably forgets that his headphones are in his pocket and the Agent makes a fool of him

-wave from opposite sides of the long room once Lance has finished juggling his shoes, phone, and backpack

-and finally, watch with a single tear in his eye as Lance finally checks the time and scurries off toward his terminal.  Shiro always has to stand there a few extra minutes, just to make sure that he’s really gone, before he makes his way back to the truck.

All in all, this particular airport excursion is less dramatic than some from past years—thank god—but the whole process is draining and Shiro always seems to find himself in need of a glass of Coran’s drink of choice, a pound of meatballs, and/or a long session with his therapist.  And look, it’s not that Lance is particularly difficult to handle or that he’s a problem child or whatever, it’s just… he was the first, aside from Allura.  Allura barely even counts as the first because she was already _there_.  But Lance?  Lance was the first one they consciously chose to bring into the House, and it’s that plus Lance’s rather _extra_ nature that makes it a day harder than most.

He’ll be back in a week, of course, but until then there will be a presence missing, a gap in the babies lined up in the warmth of the nest.  Shiro is emotional.

He’s still not over it by the time he gets home and finds himself agreeing to let Hunk bring the bike into the living room because it’s getting too cold outside to let Keith hang out in the elements, no matter how many times Keith promises not to strain himself.  “Kitty Rose has entered the building,” Pidge announces to no one in particular—Hunk, Keith, and Shiro already knew, Lance is gone, the mice—one on each of their shoulders—are unconcerned with human turns of phrase, and Allura is in the bathroom doing hair dying things and doesn’t so much as grunt in response.  Normally Lance helps, calling her out every few minutes to check and see that she’s getting an even coating (probably while also finding something witty to say about Kitty Rose, in this case), but…

Shiro falls into a chair, hugging the House laptop close.  It’s days like this that he really understands why the laptop is Pidge’s comfort item of choice.  He sluggishly starts to pick apart an article on how to get back on your feet post-delivery as the bike’s red chassis is cracked open and her parts spread across the floor, Hunk passing off a piece here and there to the couch so Keith can inspect it.  Pidge sits off to the side, messing with the dials and displays. 

“You know, I bet I could create a computer interface for her.  Add a wifi hotspot to get traffic and weather alerts, send the info to your helmets,” she says.  It’s not a bad idea. 

“Hm,” Hunk says, too focused on levering out a piston to pay much attention. 

Lance would have a response to that.  Shiro can imagine it right now.  Some quip about it only being worth it if they can stream movies on the inside of the visors. 

Shiro sighs into the silence.  It’s going to be a long week.

 

* * *

 

 

The afternoon is unbalanced in a way that has Shiro bouncing around more than he usually does.  Everyone but Keith has wandered off from the living room, leaving for pursuits in other parts of the House.  Shiro peeks in on each of them in turn—Pidge in the kitchen with her laptop, Hunk in the Blue Room with a book, Allura in the Pink Room blasting music, and finally in a loop back to Keith, in the living room, with Red.

He’s going through the parts again, picking each of them up off the drop-cloth on the floor and turning them around in his hands, narrating to himself as he goes.  Except… it’s not to himself, Shiro realizes.  He’s talking to the Little Alien.  And Pidge, maybe, who is close enough to double check the internet for him when he stumbles on proper part names.  But mostly… mostly to the Little Alien.

Shiro smiles, sinking into the armchair as quietly as he can so as to not disturb him.  It’s nice.  Keith’s voice keeps him company as he pulls out the laptop again, and that’s where he stays, content, for an undetermined amount of time.  In fact, he’s there right up until Hunk barges in, all in a tizzy like they forgot the baby at Walmart.

“Pidge!” he says, holding a hand out to her.

“Huh?  What?” says Pidge’s voice from across the way.

“Keith!” comes next, Hunk spinning to hold his other hand out to him.

Keith shifts on the floor, wincing.  “…Yeah?” he says, holding back a yawn so he can fit a socket wrench back into the toolkit.

Hunk glances between them, hands still outstretched.  Beseeching.  “When is the last time either of you ate?!” he asks when neither of them look up.

Huh.  Good question.  Shiro fumbles with his watch, trying to catch a peek at the time.  It’s later than he thought it was.  Late enough that they’ve technically missed dinnertime.  Whoops.

Keith shrugs, apparently determining that’s an adequate answer and the topic is safe to drop now as he pulls their haphazardly-printed repair manual closer.  Pidge scrunches up her face as she gets an error message from her laptop.  Hunk takes turns staring each of them down, rather uselessly.  His hands drop to his sides as he groans.

“Come on.  One of you has to know,” he says.

“Uh… don’t remember,” Pidge finally responds, her attention still split at best.

“What do you mean you don’t remember?!” Hunk gasps, incredulous.  You’d think they were ignoring a fire in the room with the way he starts to turn back and forth to each of them, getting more and more anxious/exasperated when neither of them shows signs of moving to remedy the situation.  Shiro coughs into his hand, trying to remember the last time he saw one of them eat anything.  Or himself, for that matter.  It hasn’t been a whole eight hours… has it?  Oh god, has it?

Pidge blinks at her laptop, squinting at the corner.  After a moment she fumbles for the glasses that she shoved on top of her head to see better.  “I forgot?” she suggests, looking up at last. 

Hunk groans again, dragging both hands down his face.  This has happened enough times since Hunk arrived in the house that he’s started to sound vaguely annoyed every time he has to give the lecture.  “Not cool, Pidge.  Your body needs nourishment.”

Equally put out, Pidge tips back in her chair, stretching back and then snapping forward as her foot slips on the tile.  “Uuuuuugh fine.  Just let me finish this… uh… yeah, give me a minute…”

She’s gone.  One subject lost, Hunk whips back around, pointing a finger dead at Keith’s chest.  “And you!” he says.  “What’s your excuse?!”

Another shrug.  Hunk’s eyes narrow.  He turns his focus on Shiro in the corner.  Shiro does not like where this is going.

Especially when Hunk says, “So Shiro,” in a conversational tone that causes flashbacks to every you’re-in-trouble-young-man conversation Shiro has ever had with Coran.

“Uh,” he says eloquently.  He fights the temptation to shrink into his seat.  He recalls, now, that Keith does better with smaller meals throughout the day instead of three big ones to get the nutrients he needs.  It seems to have slipped his mind. 

Hunk pulls up a puppy-face, his eyes huge and shining.  “ _Shiro._ _”_

Shiro, chastised, feels his shoulders hunching.  “I’m sorry?” he offers.  It does nothing to stop the full pout Hunk is now sporting. 

“I had faith in you,” Hunk says, running a hand through his hair and accidentally knocking his headband askew.  “For the love of god, you’re supposed to feed these poor children!  _Think of the baby, Shiro_!”

Shiro raises his hands in surrender.  It’s been a weird day, okay?  He’s missing the one who usually reminds him to get it into gear.  _Usually_ , Lance starts whining about being hungry long before they reach this point, which would tip Shiro off to the fact that none of them have eaten in a while.  Lance is gone, ergo, no barometer of the kids’ needs.  Shiro is working blind, especially because Pidge and Keith would both starve to death before they’d point out that dinner was supposed to be an hour ago.

“I would give up on you all if I didn’t care so deeply about you,” Hunk says, sighing deeply.  He snatches away the tin of peanut-butter cookies that Pidge pulled out of the cabinet, ignores her argument that peanut-butter cookies are adequate nourishment _give them back_ , and gets started on a semi-passive-aggressive batch of Parmesan chicken thighs.

He’s in the middle of browning them when Shiro’s phone goes off.  Shiro grunts and goes to work the device out of his pocket.  Before he even catches sight of the screen he knows who it is.

“LANCE IS CALLING,” Pidge yells, without looking up from her laptop. 

On cue, Allura appears with her cordless blow dryer, just finishing up scrunching her hair.  She tosses the blow dryer on the counter, snags a piece of chicken straight from the pan, and plops herself dead center at the table.  Rolling her eyes, she takes the phone from Shiro’s hand before he’s even done asking her to remind him how to do the thing.  She taps out some mysterious encrypted code that boots up the video call screen, muttering about how old he is, which he _isn_ _’t_ , thank you very much.  While he mutters about the fact that he’s not even thirty-five yet, Pidge shuffles in on one side, and Hunk on the other, the latter passing out plates of food for everyone.  Shiro carefully sets the phone up against the decorative vase that he leaves on the table to pretend that they care about interior design, motioning for Keith to come over.

“You saw him, like, six hours ago,” Keith grumbles, but slots himself into the group shot anyway, hovering behind Pidge’s chair with his food clutched to his chest.  He looks uncomfortable in front of the camera, giving it the same nervous looks that he gives Pidge’s phone whenever it’s hovering too close for comfort.

Lance is already grinning away on-screen.  “Hola!” he calls, and there’s a chorus of the same behind him.  A small sea of faces looks on from behind his shoulders and he swings, grinning, in an arc to get them all.  He chatters something to them in Spanish, too quick for Shiro’s high school Spanish to catch, and then turns back with a sheepish smile as someone flaps their hands, pushing him gently from behind.  “We’re using my Uncle’s data for this, we don’t get to talk for very long.  But hey, at least you get to see my beautiful face for a little while, eh?”

“Damn right,” Shiro says, making the rows of Espinoza cousins crack up.  Hunk is hanging on to Lance’s every word, scrutinizing him.  Keith shrugs yet again, as if he could give or take Lance’s face.

“You made it through security just fine?” Hunk asks anxiously when the mirth dies down a little.  “And the planes?  You didn’t have trouble with your connection or anything?”

“No, Hunk.  Bro, I’m totally fine.  Didn’t even spill my drink on the flight this time.”  Lance grins, sinking back onto one of his probably-seventh-cousins so he’s leaning directly on her.  “And, before you ask, yes _abuelita_ has fed us.  Like, twice already.  Oh!  Let me introduce Keith!  Someone push him to the front!”

“Uh, we don’t have to—”

“Just _go_ ,” Allura grunts, taking him by the elbow and dragging him front and center.  He’s even more awkward there, raising a hand in a half-hearted wave as Lance announces a quick summary of his personality and hobbies.  There are a few interested nods when he mentions the bike, but Shiro can clearly see that most of them aren’t focused on that—most of them, especially the little ones that haven’t learned not to stare yet and the older, traditional generation with strict fifties morals, are taking note of the very prominent baby-bump that Keith can’t really hide anymore.

This does not escape Keith’s notice.  He winces a little, crossing his arms until Lance gets sidetracked waxing poetic about the beach.  He takes the opportunity to slink back to his spot in the back. 

They’re so used to it now that it’s hard to remember that Keith isn’t just _Keith_ to the rest of the world.  People stare, and comment, and even sometimes try and touch him while he’s out.  They have opinions, and questions, and concerns.  Shiro remembers standing with him once in the hallway at the high school, and all the pointed looks and whispers aimed his way.  It’s got to be hard, meeting new people, especially when he doesn’t know how they’ll react.

Shiro reaches back and gives him a tap with his fist for sticking it out and getting it over with.  And as a sort of apology, because _he_ certainly knows how they’re going to react, and they haven’t seen the _start_ of it yet.

It starts near the end of the call, after all the back and forth about ethnic hair between Allura and Lance’s eldest cousin and Hunk passing along his favorite recipes of the year and the small goofball niece who grins all the way through a story that makes a fool out of Lance.  Shiro knows it’s coming when Lance’s great-aunt taps Lance on the shoulder and leans down to whisper something in his ear, because that’s the point when the older generation breaks away and starts talking among themselves, casting pointed glances over at Lance and the camera.

Shiro sighs.  “…What are they saying?” he asks.  Like ripping off a band-aid, just get it over with.

“What?” Lance’s voice is muffled as he leans away from the phone to listen for a moment, trying to be inconspicuous.  “…Oh.  That.  They’re just… well, they’re kind of pissy because I told them that you wanted to give up the baby?  They thought, um, that you weren’t so far along, so they’d have time to convince me to convince you to get married and… uh… raise it?”

“Is that so?” Keith asks, just this side of pleasant.  His dark eyes flash with a moment of deep emotion, something along the lines of pain-anger- _frustration_.  Shiro is pretty sure that it’s not directed at Lance or Lance’s extended family specifically, but it’s there all the same, and the hurt runs deep.

Lance raises the hand not holding the phone in a placating gesture.  “I’m not going to do it, I promise!  I didn’t want to, like, explain your whole situation without your permission so… they can think what they want, right?  Am I right?”

Keith’s teeth are grinding.  “…It’s fine,” he mutters, after a solid minute of tense silence.  “It’s whatever.  Just—whatever.”

That sure speaks volumes.  Shiro reaches out to tap him again, only to swipe air as Keith high-tails it from the room.  On screen, Lance cringes.  Hunk shuffles, scratching his head.  “That could have gone better,” he says into the awkward miasma that now permeates the room.

It sure could have.  Lance signs off with a half-hearted finger gun, his grin a little strained.  Allura blows a huge bubble with her gum, letting it stretch and pop and get reeled back in before she says, “Lancey-Lance is gonna have some groveling to do,” and gets up, dismissive.  The other kids wince and trail off, Pidge with her laptop and Hunk with the leftovers, escaping to the far corners of the house.

Shiro, left completely alone this time, sighs to himself.  Then he sets about pulling out his stationary, writing a series of cheerful letters and addressing them to Lance’s _abuelita_ ’s home in Cuba.  He picks an ultra-sound from the pile on the table special for each one, taping them right to the letters and carefully writing out the names of the prospective adopters in the captions.  Lance’s _abuelita_ and his judgmental great-aunt are going to have to get with it, honestly.  It’s a new day and age.  The times are changing.  And Allura had the audacity to call _him_ old…

He shakes himself out of it, packs it up, and puts the letters on the table by the living room door.  This will have to do.  He tries to get in a conversation with Keith but the kid is already on his way to bed, his frustration replaced by the exhaustion that so often dogs his heels now, and Shiro doesn’t have the heart to keep him up.  They’ll talk later, he decides.  Sooner rather than some far distant date, preferably, but it’s been a weird day.

He’ll let it go just this once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cheers!


	31. Week Thirty: Go Figure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When phantom limbs get you down, just get your glove, butter up, and... wait a second, what?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Heads Up: This chapter is partly artistic liberty and partly a shout-out to real life methods for treating phantom limb pain. There’s a thing called mirror therapy where, using a mirror, amputees can convince their brain that the missing limb isn’t actually missing! Look it up, it’s p cool. Lotion therapy is less real but we’re assuming that Shiro’s hand is advanced enough to mimic the movement and reaction time of a real hand so… work with me here lmfao. It's in the name of fluff.

When the first buzz of itchiness decides to ricochet to the ends of his fingers and back, Shiro heaves a sigh and goes looking for his gloves.  He only needs one of them, more or less. 

He could take the prosthesis off—it’s late enough that no one would blink an eye—and just accept that it’s going to hurt, but if he does this right he can ease the itch _before_ it becomes pain.  Sometimes he can do it.  That’s the funny thing about the phantom limb—sometimes he can almost control it, divert the nerve signals into something that feels less… icky, without succumbing to it altogether.  It’s a trick that took a while to master, but he’s almost got it down.

With the glove and his sleeve pulled into place, it almost looks like he never lost his hand at all.  If he can convince his brain of that, if he can override the wailing ghost-nerves… the pain might just stop before it really gets started.  Brains are weird things, he’ll never understand why it sometimes works.  Or why it doesn’t when it doesn’t.  He sighs, flexing both hands for a moment.  He’ll just have to wait and see if it gets better or worse.

He goes about his business for the rest of the night, doing his best to give the hand just enough attention that his brain registers that it’s moving, that it’s doing things.  Let his brain believe that the hand is there and functional; just a normal, perfectly extant hand with functional nerves that DON’T constantly send back pain signals.  This is normal.  Nothing to see here.  This will pass. 

He always feels like he’s playing pretend when he does this, but no one calls him out.  None of the kids blink an eye, not until he ducks his head into Keith’s room to ask about a book.

Keith notices the glove immediately, instantly on high alert.

“'Tis my burden to bear,” Shiro intones, trying to make a joke out of it after he explains that SOMETIMES he just gets SHOOTING PAINS in the LIMB THAT IS NO LONGER THERE.  He’s about to tell him the bit about how brains are weird and not to worry about it when Keith leans forward with a look of such intense focus on his face that Shiro blinks.

“What makes it better?” Keith demands.

Of course, Shiro is so stunned that he blurts the first thing that comes to mind, which is literally just the word ‘lotion.’  He clears his throat and tries to explain.  “Putting on lotion.  It’s a repetitive motion that requires just enough attention to reassure the mind that both hands are there and feeling the same thing.  It’s weird, I know, but…”  He shrugs.

He actually used to give the kids massages when the itch started to turn bad, but he goes so long between fits these days that he usually just chooses to work through it until he physically can’t and is forced to take the hand off.  It can be distracting, but he’d rather have the budgeting done than have a night off and later have to scramble through grocery shopping like a headless chicken.

Keith watches him closely for a second or two before he rolls to the side to snag a container off his dresser.  “Would shea butter work?” he asks, holding it up.  “I was gonna put some on before bed if you wanted to help me?”

And god… Shiro does want.  He wants to be out of phantom limbo.  He pretends that it’s okay, that feeling like his hand is about to get pins and needles at any second is just a normal thing and that he’ll be fine, but _fuck_ if he doesn’t want relief right now.

That’s how he finds himself raiding Allura’s box of hair dying stuff in the bathroom, snagging a single blue latex glove and convincing himself that she won’t miss it.  If Lance isn’t around to yell it for the whole House to hear, is it really theft?  He spends a few minutes fighting it over his prosthetic knuckles before he goes back into Keith’s room, settling beside the kid on the bed.  Keith is sitting cross-legged, his feet tucked under him, leaning back on some pillows.  He absently strokes some of the stretch marks creeping up the rise of his belly.

“Okay.  How do you usually do this?” Shiro asks, pulling his feet up and folding up so he’s mirroring Keith.  He’s not as flexible as he used to be, but it’s comfortable enough.  Soon he’s rubbing goopy circles into Keith’s skin, watching Keith closely to tell how hard to press. 

It’s easier than he thought it would be.  He’s… not really sure why he thought it would be more complicated—it’s literally just like lotion—but as the ease of the motion soothes him in a way that the Glove Method earlier hadn’t he feels a little miffed.  Was it always this easy to thwart the pain?  He distinctly remembers not.

Keith, meanwhile, stays mostly neutral, watching him like he’s only half-focused.  Shiro concentrates on the details and not on his hand—watches the motion of the taut skin as it’s gently pulled, the changes of coloration between the stretch marks that appear between his fingers, the thin line of hair trailing up toward the half-popped belly button, the fading marker strokes of a robot-baby that Pidge drew on for shits and giggles.  The large scar on his shoulder isn’t visible except for the very tip, trailing down his ribcage—Shiro doesn’t know where it came from, only that it’s lighter than the rest of his skin, like a trail of frost pressed into the membrane.  He traces around it, around a few other scars that are stretching as the baby grows.

That’s when he feels it.

He pauses with both hands on Keith’s belly, watching as motion from within makes his knuckles rise.  He feels the baby move under his left fingers, which have come to rest on a puckered scar just west of his belly button that he’s seen a few times but that Keith never talks about.  He’s not sure how ridiculous he looks right now—the scene from Juno comes to mind, the lady talking to Juno’s belly in the middle of a crowded mall.  It doesn’t matter.  What matters is that he’s here, right here, feeling a baby moving inside the womb.

“Oh,” he says.  His brain is being kind enough to not visit him with phantom pain, which he’s eternally grateful for because he is _overloading_.

“It’s been settling down,” Keith says, sighing, half a bemused smile tilted toward Shiro’s shock.  “Not enough room to move as much.”

That means something.  He’s still got seven weeks before he’s due.  Shiro’s been reading so many websites and articles that it takes him a moment to sort it all out, to say anything through his blanking mind.  “Are your ribs doing okay?” he finally asks.  Not really what he was going for, but he’ll take anything coherent at this point.

Keith huffs a laugh.  “Yeah, mostly.  They only hurt when it kicks ‘em.”

“When it kicks,” Shiro parrots.  So much for coherency.  He gives up.

He spends at least five minutes being a useless hunk of flesh, feeling the baby roll and flex its little limbs.  He can honestly say that it’s the most magical thing he’s ever done in his life.

 

* * *

 

It turns out that the pain was decidedly not thwarted—it just retreated to strike at a time when Shiro was more vulnerable.  And, if he’s not mistaken, the fog starting to drift around in his cranium is the precursor to an MS flare-up.  Nearly a year without a flare-up and now here he is, getting whammied from two directions.  Go figure.

It’s at the point where the phantom pain is insistent but not incapacitating that he finally decides to _fuck_ with trying to sleep, he’s out of there.  He’s not surprised when he finds Keith leaning against the kitchen table, but he is a little worried about the state of the kid’s circadian rhythm.  They meet like this far too often to be healthy.

“I sleep in spurts.  Every couple hours the little alien wants to turn over and then I’m awake for a while,” is all Keith has to say about it, shrugging.  He accepts the tea bag that Shiro slides over to him, going to turn on the stove before Shiro has enough marbles together to protest and make him sit.  Shiro can only concede that it’s a fair point.  His head is way too foggy to really argue, about that or about Keith fixing up the tea for him. 

So, there they are.  Two lone figures sitting in near darkness, nursing cups of cinnamon tea, Shiro’s spiked with his pain meds, both thinking the kind of thoughts that come on at the wee hours of the morning.  It only makes sense that from their mutual sleeplessness comes a halting conversation, brought forth by the cover of night and the exposed quality of emotions in the pockets between fitful attempts at sleep.

By which Shiro means that they start talking and ten minutes later they’re having a nice chat about Keith’s mom.  Go figure.

“I have a picture of her, did I ever show you?” Keith asks, his head propped up on one hand.  He looks dead tired, but his eyes are bright in the gloom.  “My dad left it in the house with the diary and I took it when the social worker came to get me.  Here…”

He must have been looking at it earlier because he produces it effortlessly from the pocket of his hoodie.  In a slightly shaky hand, Shiro takes it and studies it.  When his meds kick in he’ll be all but useless, but for now, his eyesight is just clear enough to pick out Keith’s dad’s handwriting on the back of the polaroid, captioning it as _Krolia and Me, 1999_.

She’s taller than Shiro thought she’d be.  His dad is next to her, arms wrapped around her—he’s some mixed ethnicity that Shiro can’t really pick out, aside from a bit of Native (maybe Cherokee?) and something Mediterranean.  He must stand somewhere around five nine—and Krolia, full-blooded Korean, stands an inch or so taller.  Keith’s growth spurt is starting to make a little more sense, Shiro muses.  She’s also, however, even younger than Shiro thought she was.  The photo must have been taken no more than a year before Keith was born, but before the baby bump started showing, and she doesn’t look a day over sixteen.  It’s hard to tell with the grain of the photo, but Keith’s dad is almost as young.  He’s maybe a few years her elder if that.

They look… Shiro fumbles for an adjective.  Content isn’t the word to use.  Their faces burn too brightly to be something as simple as ‘content’.  There’s passion in them, fight, a willingness to burn as bright as they possibly could.  Neither of them could have known the tragedy that was coming, but Shiro is well aware that at that point they were already versed in poverty and violence and drug addiction.  Their faces are those of people who knew pain and had decided to hell with it.  They have the look of people who’s future involved nothing short of living vicarious lives filled with the passion of love.

That’s the vibe Shiro’s getting, anyway.  Who really knows.  One diary and one photo are hardly enough to know these people’s lives.  Shiro has straight up had conversations with some of the kids’ families and he still doesn’t think he really understands the first thing about them.  Lance’s _abuelita_ , for instance.  A woman who would judge Keith for having premarital sex and daring to give up the baby, yet who shunned Lance’s father for marrying a Jewish woman.  And Pidge’s mother, who in her grief over a husband and a son refused to see her daughter for who she was and drove her from her home. 

“You’re thinking something,” Keith says, interrupting.  A wry smile cuts across his face. 

“Mm,” Shiro agrees.  “They just look very young, is all.”

“Yeah…”  Keith leans his chin on his hand, taking the photo back with dry fingers.  “I know I shouldn’t, but I keep wondering if things would have even been better if she was there.  How much could one person have really changed my life?” 

Keith bites his lip, falling silent as the question falls from his lips, and Shiro hunches beside him, massaging his stump, waiting.  He knows there’s more coming—this conversation has been in the works for a long, long time.  He put it off last week; and before that, when Keith was in the hospital; and before _that_ , when he returned the diary… it’s been a long time coming.

“…It’s just… she was my mom?  If there was anyone who should have been there, who could have made a difference, I think it must have been her?”

“Well…” Shiro starts, searching for words in the soup that is his mind.  “It’s true that people say your mom is one of the most important things in a baby’s life.  But that doesn’t mean that every person who doesn’t have a mom is missing something, right?”

Keith shakes his head.  He swipes a discreet hand across his eyes.  He’s been better about letting himself cry, recently—he doesn’t seem to feel the need to stop crying as soon as he’s started like he did when he first arrived, as if the tears were a stain that he had to scrub off his very being.  He’s getting better, in all kinds of little ways.  He opens himself up a millimeter at a time, and Shiro is ready for what escapes every time.

Tonight, it’s guilt.

“She tried so hard to be clean for me, I… maybe if I came later she could have made it?  Maybe if they didn’t feel like they had to have me even though I wasn’t planned she would…”

“Keith, addiction… it doesn’t work like that.”

“But if I—if she—”

The meds are definitely starting to kick in.  Shiro fights against them.  “I think that… sometimes we want to grieve for things we lost?  But… you’ll never know what you really lost and what would be different, so… if you… Hm.  What I want to say is that you shouldn’t hurt yourself… trying to compare what you could have had to what you got.”

Keith wipes his eyes again.  “…Is that how you feel about your MS?” he asks.

“…Yeah,” Shiro says.  “Yeah, it is.” 

Keith nods a little.  Shiro rests his good hand on the kid's head, hoping he's helping.  He feels bad leaving it at that—normally he has so many articulate thoughts about how he and his illness get along but the words aren't coming out.  Well, they are, just… not very clearly.

At least Keith doesn't seem to mind.  They talk for a while longer, about moms and addiction, chronic illness and mental health.  Shiro is getting foggier and foggier, but Keith is kind to him, giving him words when they start to slip out of his grasp.  When Shiro gets too muddled to even attempt to pull out unbroken strings of thought, Keith is there, bundling him up in his comfy house-sweater and guiding him back to the Black Room.  Shiro blinks at the reversal of roles as he's put down to sleep by one of the kids instead of putting the kids down to sleep.  He probably sounds a little loopy when he laughs about it, trying to point it out to Keith using the least number of words possible, but really… the fact that Keith takes such care with him, tries so hard to make Shiro feel better when he’s so out of it, means so much.  It means _everything_.

 _Go figure_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cheers!


	32. Week Thirty-One: About that Flare-Up... And Other Biology Notes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What's a lazy day without a healthy dose of panic?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies, I wasn't happy with how things were flowing but... sometimes you just gotta let it go.

“ _Shiro_ _… get rest.  One more day off isn’t going to kill you_.”

Oh really?  One day?  One day won’t kill him?  One day in _this_ house?  With the way they slurp up noodles at a rate of half a dozen boxes per pasta dinner?  _Get rest, stay home_ , the man says… it just doesn’t sound like solid logic. 

Shiro covers the phone mic with his hand to get a second opinion or five on the state of their finances, zeroing in on the kids mooning about the living room in a before-school zombie haze, but before he even gets his mouth open a long sigh comes across the phone line.

“ _Sick leave is paid leave, Shiro_ ,” says his long-suffering boss, in a tone of voice reserved for authority figures who have reminded their subordinate of said fact at least a dozen times already.

Which, okay, fine.  The logic is sounding more solid by the second.  Getting paid to stay home another day and doze like a housecat?  Delightful.  But here’s the thing: Shiro doesn’t _want_ to stay home another day and doze like a housecat.  Yes, he’s resting, but god at what _cost_?

Okay, so not the cost of food, since his leave is paid.  Still doesn’t mean he’s happy about it.  He’s been lazing about for five days.  Five days, now, he’s been all but useless.  The first day he can excuse—IV steroids at the clinic are no fun—but he’s on oral steroids now and it’s really not that bad.  He probably could have gone back to work three days ago.

“Ulaz, I appreciate the concern—” he starts, only to be interrupted by a loud _whoop!_ coming from the cluster of kids in front of the TV.  “What is it?” he calls over.

“SNOW DAY!” Pidge yells, promptly collapsing backwards onto Lance.  She pats around for her blanket, which she drags over her face, obviously intending to go back into hibernation for the foreseeable future.

Shiro squints at the TV.  What does she mean, snow day?  The weatherman yesterday said today was clear skies!

As if reading his mind, Hunk leans over to pat him reassuringly on the foot, yawning widely.  “It’s coming down harder at the school.  ‘S just a delay for now, but… I think Pidge… has the right idea here…”  The boy rubs at sleepy red eyes.  And then, just like that, the three of them are in a pile on the floor, snoozing life away.  Shiro shakes his head, returning his attention to his phone.

“Right, where was I—?”

“ _You were getting back to bed.  Listen to the kids, Shiro.  If the public schools are on a delay it_ _’s only a matter of time before we follow._ ”

He most certainly was _not_.  Where is Keith?  Allura?  They'll vouch for him.  “It’s going to melt off by noon, and—isn’t it early for snow, anyway?” he says, distracted, as he leans over to peer down the hallway.

“ _It_ _’s December._ ”

“But—”

“ _Goodbye, Shiro_.”

There’s a click and the buzz of silence.  Shiro groans.

“Home again?” Keith asks, shuffling in a second late.  He’s wearing an outfit made of an ancient pearl jam shirt with the sleeves cut off, pink pajama bottoms that have an elastic waist which must have come from the depths of Allura’s closet, and a pair of Lance’s handmade slippers.  The slippers are shaped like little red lions, complete with pouty expressions that match the one on Keith’s face.  “You said you were going back to work today,” he says, a touch suspicious.

Shiro rubs a hand over his bleary eyes, glaring at the TV weatherman.  “Apparently it’s a snow delay,” he says.  He tries to keep the bitterness from his voice, but… man, he was really looking forward to getting back to his normal schedule.  The sooner he does that, the sooner the pinch between Keith’s brows goes away.

The prospect of snow, at least, snags Keith’s attention before he can linger on the fact that Shiro has been benched for another day.  He goes to poke his nose out the front door, nearly tripping over Lance’s sprawling arm in the process.  Lance grunts, waving him away.  “Real nice, Lance,” he sighs.

“I do my best,” comes the rather squished sounding reply.

Keith rolls his eyes.  And then, as he gets the door open, widens them in surprise.  “Oh.  Hi, Coran.”

“Hello, Number Four!” Coran chirps.  How long he’s been standing out there is anyone’s guess, but he’s dusted in frost when he finally makes his way inside, whistling cheerfully.

“Coran, what are you doing here?” Shiro asks, dragging a tired hand down his face.

“Well,” Coran starts, fighting with his coat’s buttons.  “I just saw the weather report and I thought it’d be nice to have some special time with the kids!”

Shiro looks down at the pile of kids on the floor, and then at Allura’s closed door.  The only one even remotely conscious right now is Keith, and he’s staring dubiously at Coran, arms crossed.

“Oh, come on!”  Coran swipes his wet hair back into impeccable perfection.  “It’ll be fun!  Not to mention that Shiro here will get a chance to rest up, eh?”

That sells it, apparently.  “Just let me find some boots,” Keith sighs, trudging back to the Blue Room.  Shiro peers out at the front yard—Slav is out there in his whacked out Fiat, ostensibly waiting for them to get it together and go, tapping his hands worriedly on the wheel as snow slowly wafts down around him.  Whatever this ‘special time’ entails, Shiro is very glad that he’s taking no part in it.  Slav may have been a brilliant engineer once-upon-a-time, but he can be a downright _nightmare_ and he doesn’t even have to try.

“We’ll have fun, don’t you worry.  I’ll take good care of the little wallaby,” Coran says, tugging Shiro’s attention back with a solid smack on the shoulder that makes his entire arm tingle.

It is at this point that Shiro realizes that he’s resisted for as long as it’s humanly possible to resist, and succumbs to the couch cushions.  He’s a housecat with some dozing to do.

 

* * *

 

When he wakes, Pidge and Hunk have abandoned Lance on the living room floor to play chess in the kitchen and argue about the proper way to modulate something or other.  Lance, all ungainly splayed limbs and drool-stained cheek, is finally starting to show signs of life.  It takes him a while every year to work through the melancholy that always sinks in after visiting his family.  He’s staring at the ceiling when Shiro turns over to get a better look—upon seeing that Shiro is awake, Lance immediately blurts the first thought on his mind:

“Shiro, have you noticed that Keith talks in his sleep?”

Stretching his sore arm above his head and raising his stump as far as possible, Shiro lets out a yawn.  “No, not particularly,” he says as the yawn winds down again, flopping back down onto his back.  He _has_ caught him with a thumb in his mouth, but he’s still not sure if Keith was sucking it or sleep-biting it, and he’s not going to tell Lance either way.  He rather enjoys it when the house is calm and no one has any new and exciting blackmail material.  Especially Lance.  Yes, _even if_ said blackmail material is hilarious.

Speaking of.  “Does he say anything interesting?” Hunk asks, leaning toward them.  Pidge looks up for a moment, interest piqued.  Shiro rolls over to free his other ear from the couch cushion.

Lance clears his throat, suddenly uncomfortable with the subject he brought up.  Though not uncomfortable enough to stop talking about it, apparently.  “Uh, well…  I can’t usually make anything out but last night it was like word vomit?  He was mumbling about his mom and kinda… apologizing?”

Hunk’s mouth gapes open for a moment before he huffs and says, “I can’t believe he talks about it in his sleep.  He hardly talks about anything important when he’s awake.  He barely even talks, period.  Do you think that’s like… a brain thing?”

Pidge glances at Shiro with an eyebrow raised.  Shiro grunts in question.  Lance flops a hand on the floor, exasperated.  “What on earth is a ‘brain thing’?” he groans.  “Should I be like… offended?  Come on, Hunk, don’t be that guy.”

“I’m not!  I swear!  It’s just like, uh… one of those things.  You know what I mean.  Word vomiting in his sleep it just like one of them, maybe.”  Hunk looks around for support.  “You know, like how I do the label thing?”

By the looks on their faces, Pidge and Lance have even less of a clue what he means than Shiro does.  The explanation has done nothing to help.

“Didn’t he also like… actual vomit once?” Allura asks, off-hand.  Her door is open now—she must have been listening in.

The reaction is immediate.

“Oh man, do NOT remind me about that!  Don’t even _joke_ about it,” Hunk moans, abandoning his attempts at elucidating what a ‘brain thing’ is.

Lance crosses himself dramatically.  “It was like the exorcist, except _in my bed_.  I thought roller coasters with _Hunk_ were bad.”

“Oh, fuck off, all of you,” Pidge says.  “None of you were there the time he was up for four hours straight puking because he forgot he was allergic to shrimp.  You are all weak and a half-dead mushroom could decompose you.”

Shiro neglects to remind her that she could have—and probably should have—woken him up earlier that night.  It was a _mess_.  “…Lance, why do you bring it up?” he asks, trying to shove the mushroom visual from his mind.  He shivers.  Fungus, man.  There’s just something about it. 

“No reason, really.”  Lance dons an air of disinterest, picking at a loose thread on his jacket.

Pidge smiles smugly, watching him.  “He’s worried,” she says slowly, like she just uncovered a deep, dirty little secret.

“Pidgey!” Lance huffs.

“You ain’t smooth.  I can see it from over here, Lance.”

“Well what am I worried about, hmm?  Can you see that, too?”

Pidge taps on her glasses, her sly grin only getting wider.  “You’re worried that the Little Alien will come and Keith will leave the House.”

“Why would I be worried about that?” Lance demands.  “He’s basically a street kid already.  He tried to climb out the window the first week he was here!”

Hunk holds up placating hands.  “I think what she means is that you’re worried about him… leaving us.  Y’know?”

Kicking his feet out, Lance glares petulantly at everyone within glaring distance.  “Why would she think that?” he whines.

“Well, because… we’re kind of worried, too?”  Hunk scratches his head, looking around for support once more.  Pidge shrugs a little.

“I’m not worried!” Lance says stubbornly, crossing his arms.  “The sooner he’s gone, the better life will be!  Good riddance!  In fact, I kicked him out of bed during his sleep-speech because he wouldn’t quit moving around, so take _that_ , feelings!”

 

* * *

 

Three hours later, Keith arrives back home to the most unnerving scene that the universe has to offer: every member of the House working together toward a common goal.  Such endeavors are usually reserved for life-or-death situations, and that’s for good reason.  Today?  They’re trying to pack a hospital bag. 

For any random selection of five competent people off the face of the Earth, this would be fairly easy.  Because, you know, Google exists.  And yet…  Shiro does a quick calculation in his head as Keith comes to a complete stop right smack in the center of the doorway, hand faltering on the doorknob.  Yeah, he’s pretty sure that for competent people, this would include about 75% less frantic yelling and general household debris. 

It’s “how long is that extension cable” this and “has anybody seen the old wifi router” that and Shiro, lying on the couch with a wet towel over his face, is hoarse from reminding them over and over again that they can’t pack nothing but Reese's cups.  It’s just not practical, he’s saying when the cold air from the gaping door starts to hit him.  Put some of them back.  The family will get thrown out of the hospital, just put a few back, for _fuck_ _’s sake Lance_.

“Not if I have anything to say about it,” Lance says, trying to cram 40% more Reese’s cups into the already bursting bag.  “He needs these, Shiro!  _He won_ _’t survive without them_!”

Shiro groans, rubbing slow circles into his temples with fingers that are more numb than not.  He’s is absolutely sure that this isn’t what Ulaz meant when he said to rest, but it’s not like he can stop them—they did, after all, offer to do this of their own free wills.

Which, turns out, was maybe not such a good idea.  Hindsight is blah blah, man Shiro is tired.  “Why are you guys packing my hospital bag?  Isn’t it _my_ hospital bag?” Keith asks, finally having come to terms with the situation.  A peak from under the wet towel confirms that he’s torn between amused and annoyed.  Understandable.  Shiro watches long enough to see Lance, hands full of slowly softening chocolates, flap his jaw for a solid thirty seconds in search of an excuse that isn’t going to come.

Allura grinning ominously in the background watching Lance flail makes Shiro want to just… put the towel back.  He would rather be on the other side of town babysitting a dozen college kids right now.

“Well,” Hunk starts, from the center of a vortex of assorted appliance-parts.  Where they all came from Shiro honestly doesn’t know.  “ _I_ for one just wanted everything to go smoothly and to take some of the pressure off your shoulders and also I wanted to make double-sure that you pack enough snacks and—"

Across the room, elbow deep in old boxes of clothes, Pidge clears her throat meaningfully.

Hunk snaps his mouth shut. 

“Don’t listen to her, Hunky!  You word-vomit about loving our boy as much as you want or I will physically piledrive you into a cuddle puddle,” Lance barks.  Then, balanced precariously on the same long breath, he hefts the much-too-full hospital bag (an ancient tote now decorated with a Nirvana decal) and says, “Oi, Keithy-boy, check this shit out!”

Check it out Keith does.  And, while he’s busy poking through the first layer, the high school trio hovers.  The entire family, mice included, stare as they wait for the verdict.

It comes swiftly and brutally.  “Out.  Just… everyone out, oh my god,” Keith groans, rubbing his forehead.  Shiro moves to join the banished as they take the walk of shame, only to get pushed gently back.  “Not you, Shiro.  You can stay.  The _rest of you_ …”

They go, leaving Keith, Shiro, and the bag straining to hold its contents.  In complete and utter silence, Keith starts pulling things out one by one.  Sixteen rolled up pairs of stockings.  An eight-plug extension cord.  A handful of loose tea bags. 

By the time he reaches the twelve-inch plushie that Lance crammed into a sandwich baggie and wrapped in a flower headband, Keith has been taken by a fit of snickering that has Shiro struggling to stifle his own laughter into his palm.

“Shiro,” Keith gasps.  “You _let_ them _do_ this?”  He brandishes the slowly re-inflating plushie.  He’s grinning, his cheeks dimpling.

Shiro’s face falls into his flesh hand.  “I guess dealing with a flare-up from a chronic illness just after a bad bout of phantom limb pain from the crash that left me down an arm and a brother has left me out of sorts.  More importantly, is that a pack of scented markers?”

“It is.”

Shiro can’t help it—he crumbles.  It’s just so patently _ridiculous_ , the stuff Keith is pulling out, and this is coming from a man who was there while most of it went _in_.  Where did half this shit even come from?  It’s just—

It’s so _Voltron_.

And yet… so is the way Keith’s laughter suddenly drops off, and Shiro looks up to find the kid’s face contorted in pain.

“Hey, what’s up?” Shiro asks, reaching out to tug Keith to the couch beside him.

It takes Keith a moment to answer, breathing out slowly.  “Um… I’m having contractions?”

Con— _contractions_? 

 _Womb_??  _Contractions_??

Shiro presses his hands together in a praying gesture, raising them to his lips as he tries to process.  He stares at the Nirvana bag, lying gutted on the coffee table.

“You’re having contractions.  Okay.  We just unpacked the hospital bag, wee _eee need to pack your hospital bag for real, god, okay, EVERYBODY TO THE LIVING ROOM WE NEED TO_ —”

“Wait, Shiro—” Keith starts, only to be cut off as Hunk’s head pops into the room to nervously ask “Did I just hear contractions?  Because I think I just heard contractions.”

“THE BABY’S COMING?!” Lance screams, hurtling past him at breakneck speed.  Pidge appears on his heels, her laptop held aloft as she glances quickly from Lance to Shiro to Keith, her eyes sharp and a little wary like she’s preparing herself for blood and offal.  Everyone meets everyone else’s eyes and suddenly they’re all talking at once, six hundred times worse than before, getting louder and louder until even Allura is out amid the fray, screaming to be heard.

“Wait, wait, wait!  Stop freaking out!” Keith yells over everybody.  He glares at Shiro until Shiro sets down the bag, raising his hands in surrender.  “It’s not—they’re not real contractions, Coran told me they’re… um, Brax… Braxton…?”

“Oh,” Shiro says, falling backward into the couch cushions.  His head is swimming and his fingertips tingle from the false adrenaline rush.  “Braxton Hicks contractions.”

“…Sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize, Keith.  We all just need to take a deep breath.”  Shiro sucks one in to demonstrate.  He guides them all in the exercise for a minute or so, until Pidge’s face starts to get marginally less flushed and Allura’s bubblegum starts casually popping again.

“Wait, is anybody gonna explain what all that brackish junk means?” Lance demands, cutting his last breath short.  Hunk, standing beside him, has opened the abandoned bag of Reece’s and is stress-eating them two at a time.

Pidge plops down beside her laptop on the coffee table, groaning.  “It means the baby isn’t coming.”

“Wait, how do you know what all these fancy medical things are?”

“Because I don’t close my ears when people are saying things, _Lance_.”

“Hey, I was the baby of the family!  How was I supposed to—”

“ _For the last time, so was I_!”

“Okay, everybody calm down,” Shiro says, opting to pretend that he wasn’t freaking out right along with them not two minutes ago.  Keith gives him a look.  Shiro ignores it.  “All today has shown us is that we’re unprepared for the real deal.  So what are we going to do?”

The space between Keith’s brow crinkles as he thinks on it.  Lance stares dumbly, his mouth hanging open.  Hunk can’t speak through the sheer volume of sweets crammed in his mouth.  Allura has already retreated, her door slamming shut, probably at the end of her patience for dealing with her family today.  Shiro turns on Pidge, the only one who doesn’t look completely incapacitated by the question. 

“Pidge?”

“Uh.  Prepare… for the real deal…?”

Shiro snaps his fingers.  “ _Exactly_.”

They spend the rest of the night doing exactly that.  _Seriously_ , this time.  No more of these sudden scares—no more false-starts and fake-outs.  No more waiting pitifully for the other shoe to drop.  They are going to do this and do it _right_. 

Though speaking of doing things right, Shiro is going to have sooo much to apologize for next time he sees Ulaz.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cheers!


	33. Week Thirty-Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A mystery arises, an 'old friend' makes a cameo, and a pact is made.

Shiro is starting to miss the times when the house is ever truly quiet.  It’s been up and down, out and around, constant change and constant motion for _weeks_ now.  Even laid up in bed battling his own brain, mind, and body, he feels like he was just in the barest lull between surges, the seasickness of incessant ocean swells creeping slowly up his gut.

Not to say it was all bad.  It’s just that easy routines are a thing long since past, and it’s actually unexpected when what should be another hectic Tuesday, the last half-day of school for the high schoolers before winter break, turns out to be a pretty normal day.  The kind of day that involves Shiro getting home before the kids, fending off only one baffling phone call from the high school telling him that Lance staged an impromptu dance battle at the end of a math test which resulted in the teacher pulling a hamstring, and hanging out in Lance’s bed doing some pregnancy research as he listens to Keith’s even breathing and waits for the others.

It’s nice.  Quiet.  Even when Lance arrives on the scene, brandishing a thick wad of papers that Shiro guesses is the last of the pre-break homework for Keith. 

“What’cha looking at?” he stage-whispers, leaning over Shiro and the book in his lap.

Shiro looks at the page, decides that he’s actually not really sure, and nudges the book over for Lance’s opinion.

…Which is apparently that the diagram in the middle of the page is the single most disgusting thing he’s ever laid eyes on.  Thoroughly grossed out, Lance pushes back from the bed.  “GOD WHAT IS A _MUCUS PLUG_?!” he demands of the far wall, aghast, voice rising sharply.  The quiet was nice while it lasted, at least.  Back to normal programming.  “NO ONE TOLD ME THERE WAS GOING TO BE MUCUS!  WHAT NEXT, SLIME MOLDS?  HUNK—HUNK _DO BABIES FORM SLIME MOLDS_?  WAIT, NO, STOP LAUGHING IT’S A SERIOUS—” 

Lance tries to latch onto Hunk’s back as Hunk walks past the Blue Room door, missing by a margin of several feet and tumbling to the floor.  He stays down, giving the ceiling a thousand-yard stare.  It seems like every day he finds something new to act like a completely unprepared father about, but Shiro has to admit, this one is grossing him out as well. 

Keith, still drowsy from his nap, barely blinks at the commotion.  “What did you expect,” his sleepy voice says from the other side of the bed.  “’S a Lil’ Alien.”

The way Lance’s face twists in horrified disgust is, frankly, exactly how Shiro feels.  He still tries his best to keep his expression neutral, because Pidge has been hovering around with her phone at the ready, but god… he’s glad his life went the fostering route instead of the biological babies way.

At least Keith finds it amusing.

 

* * *

 

It’s nearly five PM when the package arrives.  Well, ‘arrives’—Shiro doesn’t hear the doorbell over the sound of sneakers in the dryer, but he assumes it goes off just before five.  He doesn’t look out the front window until nearly fifteen after, so the package sits outside for at least twenty minutes, just barely sheltered from the icy wind.

When he does realize it’s there, Shiro goes to the front entrance and stares through the glass door.  “Are we expecting holiday packages from anyone?” he asks, utterly bewildered. 

Hunk pops up at his side, and they stare together for a moment, thinking.  They’ve already gotten an enormous box of packaged goodies from Hunk’s moms, and just that morning Coran brought over a giant basket and let himself in despite it still being a week until their Christmas/possible-Hanukkah celebration.  They skip over Thanksgiving every year, in respect for Lance’s family and the annual reunion he attends, but maybe someone didn’t get the memo and sent along a case of cranberry sauce so many weeks late.  Wouldn’t be the first time.

“Maybe it’s sporks,” Hunk suggests, but Shiro shakes his head.  They’ve already gotten Hunk’s spork shipment, too.  Hunk doesn’t know this yet, because Shiro is planning on making it a Christmas morning surprise.  He hopes that Hunk just believes him that the sporks aren’t it.

“You know, it probably has a name on it,” Pidge says, without looking up.  “Or maybe a tracking code.  Lemme see it—I could crack the USPS system and tell you where it came from.”

Shiro levels a Look at her.

She smiles innocently, leaning back on one elbow.  “Or not!  To each their own.”

“She is right, though,” Hunk says, leaning down to examine the thing.  “It does have a name on it.”

“For who?”

“Keith.  I think.  Keith’s deadname, anyway.  It says it’s from his dad.”

Huh.  Well, that sure is a… development.  The mystery package becomes even more mysterious as Shiro contemplates what it could possibly be.  He watches as Hunk opens the door and retrieves it, and takes it when Hunk attempts to shake it next to his ear. 

Well, there’s only one thing for it.  Instead of calling Keith into the living room, Shiro brings the package—and the rest of the kids, curiosity on full display—to him in the Blue Room.  He’s a little more alert than he was earlier, flipping through a math book as Lance grumpily spins a fidget.  Both of them perk up a bit when the procession makes its way through the door.

“Hey, kid.  We’ve got something here from your dad,” Shiro says.

At that Keith’s face twists up so tightly that Shiro can’t make out individual emotions.  He doesn’t have a chance to ask, because Keith is already taking the box, picking the tape off as everyone crowds in.

The first thing he pulls out is a faded doll, wrapped in newsprint.  The next thing he pulls out is a little hunting knife, with a rune matching the one on the diary carved into the handle.  The last thing, nestled into the very bottom of the cardboard flaps, is a letter.

“Are you going to read it?” Hunk asks in a stage whisper as Keith’s fingers twitch.

Everyone is silent for a moment as Keith slowly unfolds it, his upper lip hovering just short of a scowl.

“It says he’s… out of trouble now… and he wants to meet up.”  Keith sinks into his pillows, frowning deeply at the letter.  His lip is still hovering, like he half-wants to shove the letter away.  “To catch up, he says.”

“Would you like to?” Shiro asks gently.  He can certainly arrange that.  Keith doesn’t need his permission, of course, but he can give the kid a ride wherever he needs to go, provide moral support, drop him off… it can be like the supervised visits Hunk gets with his moms, if that would be best.  He’s already planning a day they can go when he realizes that Keith hasn’t agreed yet.

Keith’s throat works, his thumb rubbing up and down the handle of the knife resting in his lap.  “Of course I would, but I…”

“What is it?”

“He said last time was the _last_ time.  He said he wasn’t going to send me any more of her things.  _He_ was the one who stopped talking to _me_.  Why would he want to talk to me now?”

“Maybe he really is out of trouble,” Hunk suggests hopefully.

Pidge snorts, derisive.  “It’s nothing but manipulation.  If you really want to be a good parent, you don’t push away your kids and then expect them to just… show up again and take up _your_ burdens because _you_ say so.”

That sounds like a cry for something.  Shiro frowns.  “I take it you don’t want to do Hanukkah this year?” he asks.  It would be about time to start, one of these days… it might actually be the first night tonight.  Shiro tries to think back to the last time he looked at a calendar. 

Pidge’s nose wrinkles, her lips turning down.  Unlike Lance, Pidge has a few reservations about carrying on her family’s traditions.  Shiro asked her last year, too, if she wanted to celebrate Hanukkah, and last year he got the response that it’s not time yet, she’s not ready _yet_.  He planned it into their fall itinerary this year, just in case, but…

It’s hard.  The fall/winter string of holidays is _hard_.  From the anniversary of the mudslide that took Lance’s family to Hunk’s wobbly smiles Christmas night as he recalls the mornings spent with his moms to the fact that Shiro still gets yearly facebook notifications that _on this date nine years ago you and Alfor were together at the Smith Residence!_ … yeah.  It’s unsurprising that Keith adds another layer to it all.  Especially as he twists the sheathed knife in his hands, staring blankly down at it.

The best way through this time of the year is moving forward, one day at a time.

Speaking of which… Shiro counts back on his fingers, first days and then weeks, trying to figure out when they last held a vigil.  Not since Hunk found out about the dairy in the mix, he concludes.  That won’t do.  “I’ll be back in an hour, anyone need anything from the store?” he asks, paying special attention to Keith for a moment.  Keith just shakes his head, shoving the box to the floor and carefully folding the letter into a very small square that he stuffs into a drawer with a red sticker on it, designating it as his.  Pidge, similarly, heads into the living room and hunches over her laptop, smacking away at the keys.  Hunk requests some ground fennel seed, and Allura… offers to go with him.

Shiro blinks.  “Really?”

“Yeah.  I’m driving, though.”

Ah, the catch.  Shiro sighs, detouring to grab a stress ball from Lance before they head out. 

It’s barely five-thirty on a Tuesday night, and the town is beginning to light up spectacularly with strings of lights and commercial inflatables of Santa Clause and co.  The synagogue just off of the main street has its doors open for a Hanukkah celebration dinner that they hold every year for the general community.  Coran must be somewhere inside right about now, volunteering with his usual enthusiasm.  When he was a kid, Shiro and the others under Coran’s care would go every year and help out the ancient Rabbi with setting everything up.  Shiro is sure there’s at least one chubby-cheeked picture of him standing with Zarkon and Alfor at the long table inside, holding candles to light the menorah that’s always at the front and center of the room.

As an adult, he’s never been more grateful for Coran than he is during the holidays.  Coran is the one thing that has never changed, not once.  When Shiro grew up and got busy during the holidays with his own things, Coran started taking Allura and Zarkon’s son, just a smidge older than her, to the synagogue.  And then Zarkon made a spectacle of himself at Alfor’s funeral and ostracized the family, and Allura started throwing tantrums, and still Coran did what he did, as cheerfully and passionately as ever.  He’s Shiro’s rock, has been for so long now.  Shiro doesn’t know what he would do without him.

But then again, he didn’t know what he would do without his arm, or his brother, and here he is making a late afternoon trip with Alfor’s daughter to procure dairy-free hot chocolate materials for the five kids he recently adopted, purple robotic hand gripping the handle above the truck’s door for dear life.  It really puts his life into perspective.  You hurt, and you cry—you heal and you move on.  That’s how it goes.

“Alright, we’re here,” Allura announces, pulling him from his musing.  She pulls into a parking space at the far back of the lot, leaving the truck crooked.  “How are we doing this?”

Shiro frowns.  Doing this?  It’s shopping.  They’ve done it a million times before.

Then, of course, he catches sight of the car she’s focused on.  His spine slumps out from under him, leaving him with his face pressed on the dashboard.  “He’s here,” he mumbles.

Allura snickers.  “Yeah.  Just your luck, huh?  Okay, let’s see… what if we snuck around to the loading bay and I put you into one of those pallet things?  I could walk you inside and he’d never know.”

Tempting.  It’s very tempting.

Instead of doing that, they settle for having Allura walk ahead to make sure the aisles are clear before Shiro enters them and gets trapped in what will inevitably turn into the most awkward conversation any of them have ever experienced.  Shiro follows Allura’s pale lavender hair around the corner, wanting to bring up her college application but knowing he should hold back.  If she wants to talk she’ll bring it up, it’s just… he wants to know how it’s going.  Spring semester is coming up fast and if she doesn’t register in time—

With a _whump_ of squishy winter coats, Shiro runs smack into a very solid form.  He looks around, sees Allura standing at the mouth of an aisle to his left with her hand on her forehead, and slowly turns back to the figure he literally ran into.  He has to force an expression that isn’t pure irritation at his own absent-mindedness when he catches sight of the glasses and warm brown skin.

“Heeey, Adam,” he says, holding his ex at arms distance.  “Sorry about that, wasn’t watching where I was going.”

“Takashi!” Adam says, with a smile.  He clears his throat, looking around.  Allura appears, face schooled into a cheery grin as she stations herself at Shiro’s side.  “Where’s the rest of the herd?  Lance can’t be here, I would have heard him by now.”

Shiro laughs, too high pitched to sound natural.  He winces, bringing his hand to the back of his neck.  “No, no, everyone but Allura is still home.”

Adam’s smile doesn’t falter.  “Ah.  I’ve heard that there’s a new one—another girl?  Allura must be thrilled about that.”  He glances between Shiro and Allura.  Allura’s grin eases wider, showing more teeth.

Shiro struggles not to let out another high-pitched giggle out of pure stress.  “Pidge?  She’s been around over a year, now.  Almost two, actually.  And there’s another you haven’t met, Keith.  And a few in between them that didn’t work out so well, but hey.”

“So you’re still enjoying fostering, then?” Adam asks.  His tone is just the slightest touch incredulous, though he's doing a good job of covering it up.  He doesn’t mean anything by it, Shiro knows, but the weight of the past is like a blanket on Shiro’s shoulders.  He wants to brush it off, but he can’t—he can only tip one shoulder in a lopsided shrug.

“Yeah, well… adoption, now.  The five of them are legally mine.  Well, Allura and Keith are of age now, but… you know what?  It’s complicated.”

Adam laughs, and it doesn’t sound like a tea kettle.  Shiro is instantly jealous.  “Of course it is.  As long as you’re enjoying it…?”

“Yeah, yeah!  They’re great kids.  Maybe you’ll meet the rest of them one day.”

“I look forward to it!”  Adam grins, taking his basket and giving a small wave.  “I’ve gotta run.  Take care of yourself, alright?”

“Yeah, you too!”

 _Yeah, you too,_ Shiro mimics in his head, his smile freezing as soon as Adam turns the corner.  He doesn’t have to look to know that Allura is giving him one hell of a smirk.  Listen, it’s not his fault if things have been awkward between him and his ex.  They were once on the same career path, Shiro reaching for pipe dreams and grasping at stars, and now… well, life has given Shiro what it’s given him, and Adam is still Adam.  It is what it is.

Aaand Shiro really needs a change of topic.

“Hey, I had a favor to ask,” he says, keeping his voice forcibly light. 

“Does it have to do with deleting the soundbite of you losing your cool and laughing like a character from _The Nightmare Before Christmas_?  Because I can’t do that—I already sent it to Pidge.”

Oh god fucking damnit.  “Allura, you’re better than this!” Shiro says.  It comes out as a whine.  Allura laughs, her fried hair falling over her shoulder in a curtain as she tips forward. 

 _At least she finds it amusing_ , Shiro thinks, taking a deep breath and holding it.  It’s becoming a mantra.  He does actually have a favor he’s been meaning to ask, though—just as soon as Allura has collected herself.

She looks so light and happy when she surfaces that he feels himself soften in response.  “So, Keith’s C-section is scheduled for the fifth and I was thinking—I’m no good in hospitals, let alone operating rooms, so would you…?”

“Yeah, of course,” she agrees airily.  “It’ll be my usual fee.  You can handle that much, right?”

Well, that’s one way to go about it.  Shiro agrees, feeling a little conflicted as he and Allura shake on it.  He’s relieved that Keith won’t have to do it alone, but at the same time… they’re family.  Does she realize this or…?

Fuck it.  Whatever gets them through it.  All’s well that ends well, right?  Shiro sighs, rubbing his eyes.  He feels like he’s said that before.  But hey… at least the semester is as good as over now.  They'll have their vigil and finish the last of their homework and Allura will register for classes and Keith will go on to his C-section and they'll be ready.

On to the next one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit: Oh! Not sure if I've said, but I changed my tumblr url! It's now the-ghost-of-kirishima-eijirou.tumblr.com and you can still come talk to me about this fic or the future fics or anything else really.


	34. Week Thirty-Three: Good Tidings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The House kicks off Keith's last weeks, Lance gets bullied by candy, and Shiro makes a vow.

The sun is an unforgiving beacon, shining through the heavens like a weapon of god, and Shiro lays on the couch, protecting his eyes from the glare of sunlight off of the icy world outside.  The House is pretty dim, but his head still hurts from his morning trek to the mailbox, the blinding white of the snow seared into his retinas.  The first days of the break really are something.

“Shiro, are you ready?” calls an impatient voice, informing him without saying so that he _ought_ to be ready by now.  Fumbling, Shiro throws his feet off the couch just in time to watch as Lance ‘guides’ Keith into the living room.  The kid has a blindfold over his eyes and his fist around Lance’s sleeve, and Lance, all twitchy and possibly heading into a manic episode judging by the way he’s bouncing on the balls of his feet and blew up nearly two hundred balloons in the space of two hours, seems intent on dragging him to the armchair. 

Somehow, they make it with no major mishaps, despite the precarious piles of shit still stacked about the room.  Shiro should really clean up.  Or do any of the things around the house that have been neglected in light of recent events, things like sorting out the piles of mail that are starting to get on Pidge’s nerves as they encroach on her territory. 

Normally Shiro can wrangle Lance into helping with chores, at least for a little while, but that tends to fall flat when Lance doesn’t even have the patience to stand up and walk to the bathroom without groaning the whole way.  So he let Lance plan a party, sue him.  It keeps Lance happy, and when Lance is happy the house is 90% less stressful.  Good for the baby.  _All_ the babies.

Armchair reached, Lance immediately starts adjusting Keith and his belly, pushing him back into the cushion and trying to touch his feet to raise the bottom.  Keith kicks him away, disgruntled, but Lance is undeterred.  He gets the chair reclined, fighting Keith the entire way, and only stops fussing when Hunk clears his throat from the kitchen doorway.  Allura and Pidge peer past him, waiting for their cue.

“Okay, I give.  What the fuck is this?” Keith asks, his head turning this way and that under the blindfold.  “Is anybody going to tell me?”

Shiro discreetly grabs for the string attached to the plastic tarp taped to the ceiling.  Hunk starts forward, Pidge and Allura on his tail.  Lance carefully pinches the tails of the blindfold around Keith’s head, holding up his other hand.  Three, two, one…

At the same moment that Lance whips off the blindfold, Shiro pulls the string and releases a cascade of balloons.  Hunk grins, raising the cake tray.  Pidge and Allura fan out with their respective trays of goodies.

“Congratulations, you carried to term!” Lance yells at the top of his lungs, lunging into a near-split with his hands thrown into the air.

For a moment, there’s nothing but the sound of balloons bouncing off each other with barely audible squeaks and squelches.  Keith runs a hand over his face, tired eyes peering over the edge of his thumb as he takes in the presentation.  He quirks an eyebrow as the other side of the tarp peels of the ceiling, slumping to the ground beside him.

“Isn’t it still a little early?” he asks finally.

Lance waves a hand, waving away every possible concern.  “We’re anticipating that you’ll carry to term.  Because you’re a stubborn asshole.  And also just in case you’re not up for it next week—gotta eat that cake while you still got room in there, right?”

“What about Christmas Eve?” Keith asks.  “Why wouldn’t you just… combine it with the holiday dinner?  It’s in like… two days.”

Lance leans in close to deliberately whisper in his ear, obviously annoyed beyond measure.  “You.  Are missing.  The point.  Of the cake.  Now would you _please_ eat?”

Under Lance’s hawk-like eye, Keith takes a slice, thanking Hunk.  Hunk shrugs bashfully when his eyes go a little dewy at the picture drawn in frosting on the top of the confection—a green alien body from neck to knees, their wide alien belly carefully drawn with an x-ray view of a UFO inside.  Balloons float everywhere, drifting up and bopping people on the legs as they try to navigate.  Keith can’t resist it for very long.  Soon enough, the party picks up and everyone is chatting and laughing.

“You’re almost done being a blimp!” Lance calls, his tongue already green from the food dye.

Somewhere along the line, Keith manages to flee the armchair, coming to sit beside Shiro on the couch.  They grin together about all the alien-themed doodles on all the balloons, drawn in Lance’s not-so-artistic hand, and then Shiro miscalculates and asks if they think Red will be up and running by New Years, which launches Keith into a very excited run-down of all the repairs they’ve made to the bike and what they still have to do, none of which Shiro can make head or tail of.  Give him a plane and he’s all over it, but motorcycles?  Pure mystery.

Keith doesn’t seem to mind that, however, and keeps talking until Lance starts groaning about how he’s an uncultured gearhead and he’d rather be watching infomercials. 

They don’t do that—instead, they move on to the movie marathons on the AMC, eating Christmas chocolates like they’re popcorn and pretending they aren’t.  Shiro can excuse it just this once—they’re the ones with sayings on the insides of the wrappers.

“Shiro,” Lance whines halfway through the second movie, flinging a crumpled-up wrapper at the TV.  “Shiro, it told me to solve my arguments with a dance off!  You told me I wasn’t allowed to do that anymore!”

“Well, they’re more like suggestions than rules.  It’s not like the chocolate dared you to do it, right?” Hunk reasons.  Lance snorts.  Two minutes later he thrusts another wrapper at Shiro’s face—it says the exact same thing.

“You have the power to resist,” Shiro says.  He has to laugh, though, when Lance opens yet another chocolate and barely glances at it before he shoves it over.  _What are you waiting for?_   Okay, that’s funny.  The kid is getting peer-pressured by chocolates.

A loud conversation on the topic of holiday jingles and how old the M&M ad with Santa Claus can possibly be dominates the next commercial break, and Shiro takes the opportunity to tug Keith closer to his side.  “Hey, so… how are we feeling about January?”

Keith hums.  “Um.  Good?  Yeah, I’m… I’m good.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhmm.  I was doing what you do.”

“What I do?”

“Yeah!  Um, the researching?  Maybe it’s kind of dumb, but I was reading about it online, like… people’s stories.  I found this story about an intersex lady who thought she couldn’t get pregnant but then she did and how she had a C-section.  I figured if she could do it I can do it.  I mean…”  Keith takes a breath, letting it out slowly as his hand finds the curve of his stomach, a little shrug touching his shoulder.  “It’s like Coran says.  Birth is universal, people everywhere do it, and not every story has to end the way my mom’s did.  …That’s all.”

That’s not all.  Shiro feels emotion stuff his chest like cotton, pressing against the inside of his ribs.  Behind those words, there were weeks and months of heavy lifting, of thought processes that this kid had to work through and work out to get to any kind of peace with the situation, and Shiro knows—he _knows_ how hard this was on Keith.  Keith lived an _entire lifetime_ with the idea in his head that he took his own mom’s life, that his little preemie self, too small to breathe on its own, was to blame.  He grew up with a guilt greater than anything Shiro has ever known—fear that he not only caused her death but that he would one day follow in her footsteps, a prophecy that came true when he found himself in the exact same situation, expecting a baby he was woefully unprepared for before he was old enough to know what to do about it.

To come out of that whole mess with determination instead of terror is a sign that Keith is strong, stronger than even Shiro thought he was, and Shiro can’t help but wrap his arm tight around the boy’s shoulders, tucking him under his chin.

“I’m so glad to hear that,” he breathes, letting Keith wriggle his arm around his waist to return the hug.  “And even if you’re nervous you know Allura will be with you the whole time.  She promised.  And I’ll be close-by—if you need me I’ll be there, okay?”

“That’s all right, Shiro.  I know you’ll be as close as you can.  That’s all I need.”

Fuck, man.  These kids.  Shiro presses a swift kiss to the silky black hair under his chin, squeezing tighter for just a moment.  They break apart when the kid cluster on the floor in front of them bursts into loud groans and whoops, chocolates passing hands as Pidge wins a bet about the original air-date of the M&M commercial.  Keith leaves his arm behind Shiro, fingers subtly holding onto Shiro’s shirt, as he laughs at Lance’s miserable whining.  Shiro silently wipes at his eyes, hoping that no one saw all of that.

Of course, Allura meets his gaze from the far side of the room.  She was probably watching the whole time.  Oh, well.  She has a small smile on her face as she strokes the mouse on her shoulder, and Shiro returns it, albeit shakily.

 

* * *

 

 

As the night wears on, more movies are had and the floor is slowly coated in candy wrappers that Shiro knows aren’t going to be picked up until New Years at the earliest.  The kids drift around, changing positions depending on who wants to be closest to the TV (usually Lance) and who needs the bathroom in the middle of the movie (usually Hunk).  Shiro stays put, presiding over them all—and Keith stays at his right hand, unmovable. 

Right about the time that Lance starts advocating for a rewatch of _The Iron Giant_ for ‘posterity’ (Shiro is ninety percent sure he just wants to quote the Superman line), Keith’s head starts to loll onto Shiro’s shoulder, his eyes slipping closed.  Shiro breathes carefully, trying not to disturb him as he settles heavier and heavier, his weight falling fully into Shiro’s side.

The first camera snap comes from Pidge’s side of the room, and Shiro glares over at her.  “Don’t disturb him,” he whispers, and Pidge gives him a thumbs up that apparently means she’s not going to stop taking pictures like she’s witnessing a rare meteorological phenomenon but that she WILL turn the sound off to be considerate.

“It’s like a cat falling asleep on you, you need to _appreciate_ that shit,” she whispers, standing up for a better angle, and Hunk nods wisely at her hip. 

Lance raises a finger from where he’s piled himself on the coffee table, pointing dramatically upward.  “ _Also,_ we recorded some video of him waddling a few days ago and now the only time we can get pictures of him is when he can’t see the camera.  Or like… sense it with his weird freaky alien senses.” 

Hunk nods again, just as wisely.  Pidge makes a disgruntled face which tells Shiro that she’s had her phone smacked out of her hand a LOT recently, and Shiro tries his hardest not to laugh and shake Keith.

The wind outside blows against the window behind him, but the light inside is so warm it’s hard to believe that winter is raging on—Shiro feels like he could distill this moment, this very instant, into a pure essence of love and faith.  It would run clear and shining, beautiful when he cupped it in his hand.  He can almost imagine it when he closes his eyes—smelling of chocolate and Keith’s shampoo, sounding like six bodies stacked soul on top of soul on top of soul…

He’s dozing before he means to, his watch showing a time just after nine PM.  He dreams about Voltron.  Not the House, but the show, one he watched with Lance nearly half a dozen years ago.  But in the place of the paladins are his kids, all staring determined across a void at a figure who wears the face of his eldest brother, a man who has since been given the name ‘Zarkon’.  The black lion sits at his back, and she sings with a voice he recognizes as that of the family therapist, Beatriz, who he’s long since lost contact with after watching her stressing to keep his family functional in the wake of Zarkon.  Zarkon… the man who tore them all apart, the man whose company’s emblem was scrawled across the side of the truck that took Alfor away from them…

…and Shiro looks around but the Voltron castleship is becoming the black lion’s dashboard is becoming the inside of a car squeezed like an accordion, and Shiro tries to move only his arm is pinned and he tries to breathe only his ribs are locked and he swears he saw him, he saw Alfor, standing at the front windshield—

—but now when he blinks he sees white armor and a red sword, and his brother’s hair, in reality a thick black speckled with strands of gray, is now the palest shade of lavender, matching Allura’s bleached curls, that soft smile of his curling across his cheeks—

—and the arm, the arm is agonizing but the lung is unbearable, Shiro feels like there’s a thousand pound weight pressing down on his chest but he knows from experience that it’s just the pressure of his lung collapsing inside of him—

—and that was a nightmare, he realizes, coming awake all at once.

“Whoa, didn’t mean to startle you!” Hunk says.  His big form is blocking the light of the television—he’s leaning over to put something on the table in front of them.  On closer examination, Shiro sees two jumbo marshmallows and a swirl of whipped cream—hot chocolate.  He lets his head fall back against the couch, holding Keith tighter for just a moment.  Keith lets out a snort in his sleep, mumbling something or other, but he quiets and settles into silence in another moment.

“You’re fine,” Shiro manages to mumble, unnerved by the easy way the air flows in and out of his throat.  There is no fluid, no pressure—he’s okay.  He’s okay.

“You look a little spooked,” Hunk says, picking up the mug he just sat down in order to hand it over to Shiro.  “Weird dream?  Because I had one last night about this giant robot thing—”

Shiro listens to Hunk’s story, letting his own thoughts disperse into nothingness.  He’s just stressed—he’s glad that Keith is feeling confident, but that doesn’t mean there’s nothing to worry about, and it certainly doesn’t mean that even though the operating room is a guaranteed panic attack he won’t still be wrung out and left to dry waiting in the next room over.

God… he wants Keith to be okay.  He wants so badly for him to be healthy, happy—he wants him to get to ride the bike and laugh with the others and finish school.  It has to happen, or—it just has to.  _It has to_.

Later that night, Shiro trades a video of little Lance crying over a can of Pringles for a copy of the picture of Keith sleeping on his shoulder, and breathes until he feels the weight of his dream push itself from his body.  He saves the photo as his phone background and vows that they’ll make it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That wrapper thing with Lance is a real event, I have photo documentation.
> 
> We're coming up to the end! How are we feeling, lizards? Personally, I'm bittersweet--I'm happy to be writing but I'm not ready for the fic to be finished :'D
> 
> Tho I do still have a bunch of illustrations to do!
> 
> If you want to talk feel free to leave a comment, or to come to the-ghost-of-kirishima-eijirou.tumblr.com and hit me up! 
> 
> Cheers!


	35. Week Thirty-Four: A New Year A New Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shiro goes gay clubbing, Allura goes missing, and wait, fuck, _don't say the line from Juno._ Oh, god damnit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)

It’s been a week since the party.  A week since Shiro sat in the living room with Keith asleep on his shoulder and a nightmare on his lungs.  A week since he tucked the boy under his arm and pressed a kiss to his slowly growing hair.  A week since sleeping in a pile on the couch, Lance watching over them as they all drifted off.  A week since life gave them the reprieve they all needed, like an oasis materializing on the horizon of the desert.

The past week was just as hard for Shiro as many of the ones preceding it, though the kids seem to be having a good enough time.  This is because the entire week was filled with nothing but cooking, eating, and cooking more and he has no.  Excuse.  To get out of it.  Not even his pitiful, burnt chocolate chip cookies will convince Hunk to let him leave the kitchen. 

It’s always a learning experience with Hunk—he’s determined to find something that Shiro thrives at in the kitchen, despite four years of abject failure.  Yes, Shiro has since learned how to properly make a pot of pasta, but the learning curve was steep and he still feels better with supervision.

“Rolo’s here!” Allura’s voice calls across the house. 

Shiro barely makes it to the door in time to see her coat disappear through it and shouts a quick, “Happy New Years!” at the quickly lessening gap between door and jamb.  Then she’s gone, and he’s back to kitchen work, doing his level best to keep anything from getting beyond saving.  He thinks he’s doing a pretty good job of it.

At seven forty-five, they start to set the table for dinner, Lance launching into a list of possible resolutions he’s got for the new year as soon as his butt’s on the chair.

“—And swimming, can’t forget about swimming,” he says on the end of a very long breath.  He sucks in another, ready to keep going, but Hunk cuts across him.

“Hey, Keith, got any resolutions?”

Keith hasn’t been paying attention this entire time, his face distant.  He shivers a little, hunching up.  Come to think of it, he’s been a little off all day, through all of their last-minute New Year’s prep.  Like he’s focused just slightly off-center.

“Dude, you okay?” Hunk asks, setting down a bowl in front of him.  The look is one they’ve come to recognize easily in the last few days especially—it means he’s getting more faux-tractions.  Lance refuses to call them anything else, certainly not their proper name, which would be _Braxton hicks contractions_.  Pidge gave up correcting it after the third time it happened.

Keith shakes his head a little, a new development.  So far he’s just powered through them, maybe gone horizontal for a bit when they got particularly troublesome.  This time, there’s an upset edge to his voice, a grim thread of panic.  “I think I need to… Shiro?”

Shiro heads to his side immediately.  “What is it?”

“Can you help me…?”  He holds out a hand.

Shiro grabs on, ready to haul him to his feet, when Keith gasps and bends over.  The hand in Shiro’s grip tightens as his other one moves to brace against the table.

“Uh, Shiro?” Lance says nervously.  “Shiro, I know you don’t want me to say that Juno line, but either Keith just peed his pants or—"

“The Little Alien’s coming,” Keith gasps, and it’s ominous and exciting and too much to handle at once when everyone suddenly starts moving.  Lance is at the door in about two seconds flat, clutching the pack they prepared weeks ago for The Moment, so impatient and ready to go that he’s not even commenting on the fact that Keith got the line wrong.  Pidge grabs as many redbulls from the fridge as she can hold and starts passing them to Hunk, one after the other, before she snatches up her laptop and tucks it under an arm.  Hunk shoves their dinner into Tupperware, packing a snack bag, packing the redbull, packing everything in sight—and the whole time, Shiro is holding onto Keith’s elbows and rubbing his thumbs soothingly against his biceps, thrumming with energy.  It’s fascinating how they all can be totally in sync, but only when they’re in a state of total collective panic. 

“This is the worst possible night for this,” Hunk moans, dumping silverware into his bag.  “Like, the chances of a DUI accident are up like fifty percent because people are stupid on holidays, and if you add that to the bad road conditions and the chance that there are complications with the C-section—all I’m saying is this could be bad, this could be really bad, the eggnog going off this morning was an omen and—"

“Hunk,” Keith whines.

“Yes, Hunk, please don’t, I’m already freaked out enough as it is,” Lance says, and Hunk mouths an apology.

“It’s okay.  We have everything under control,” Shiro says.  “Lance—find the—”

He’s already on it, ripping apart the couch for the keys to the van, heedless of the mess he’s making for them to come back to. 

It’s like second nature now, when Shiro kneels and gets his arm under Keith’s knees.  Keith’s arms wrap securely around his neck.  They move in tandem, fluid.  Shiro is the only one close enough to catch the half-smile that flits across Keith’s face—anxious, but excited.  Shiro feels his beating heart tattoo the same emotion onto the inside of his ribcage as he carries Keith to the van where Lance is already spreading a towel on a seat for him.

The hospital feels like it’s humming at a frequency Shiro can almost hear.  There’s an energy to the place, due to the date and the time.  The whole family is ushered into an exam room, Keith set up with a contraction monitor, as the C-section team gathers for his intake.  They’re waiting for an OR to open, watching the contractions closely as they examine him, the nurse taking his blood pressure asking questions as the minute hand and then the hour hand of the clock tick forward.

“You sure you weren’t feeling real contractions earlier this afternoon?”

Keith shakes his head, breathing slowly.

“Sweetie, you’re six centimeters dilated.  You didn’t realize that you were approaching active labor?”

Another head shake.  Where is Allura?

“Did your doctor tell you what to watch for?”

What is with the interrogation?!

Shiro is about to make a comment when Hunk beats him to it.  “We knew beforehand that he’d need a C-section because his body is built differently, so yeah.  I’m sure he knows his body better than you do.”

Lance claps Hunk on the back, standing beside him in solidarity.  Hunk stands up to his full, not-inconsequential height and glares at the nurse.  The nurse raises one hand and steps off, finishing his duties in silence.

And then comes more waiting.  Waiting for the contractions to speed up, waiting for the surgery prep to start, waiting for Allura to _answer her phone_.  It’s not quite time yet, but soon enough the family will be moved out to the waiting room where they’ll eat away their stress with Hunk’s Tupperwared dinner.  Before that happens, Shiro _needs_ Allura there.  _She needs to be here_.

“How long will it be?” Shiro asks the doctor who is double-checking Keith’s chart once it hits ten forty.  “We’re still expecting someone.  She’s his buddy for the OR.”

“Well, the contractions are about four minutes apart, but this labor is moving fast and we want to get in there before we get to the pushing stage or else baby might get distressed.  I’d say you have about half an hour.”

Okay.  Great.  That’s not fantastic, but that should be enough time.  Shiro all but bolts for the exit, raising his phone to call Allura for the millionth time.  Where is she, in a movie?  He literally can’t remember the last time that she didn’t answer on the second ring.  That phone just straight up lives in her hands, so of _course_ , on tonight of all nights, she’s decided to send it away on holiday.

Well, there’s nothing else for it.  Shiro hurries out to the parking lot, keys in hand.  As much as is humanly possible, he tries to turn a blind eye on Allura and Rolo’s usual haunts.  He’s not here on this earth to police Allura and her decisions—she is her own person, making her own choices in life, and she’ll make it through eventually.  Tonight, however, he takes the minivan and drives straight for the location pin that Pidge sends to their ancient GPS navigator.  The journey to Allura has begun.  Ten forty-three PM on New Year's eve and Shiro is going to a gay club downtown.

 

* * *

 

 

“Sir, you… what?”

Shiro rubs at the scar on his nose with the finger pads of his prosthesis, already feeling lightheaded from the boom of music out here on the street.  Or maybe that’s the stress?  “I need to find my daughter because of a family emergency.  I’ll pay to get in if I have to but it’s time sensitive and I don’t have time to wait in line—”

“What kind of emergency?” the bouncer asks.  He hasn’t budged yet, and the line stretching along the building at his side has started muttering, watching the production. 

“My son—he’s trans, here’s a picture—” Shiro opens his phone to his home screen, showing the picture of Keith sleeping on his shoulder with his belly prominent, “—he’s pregnant and having a C-section in, uh, about twenty minutes now.  And my daughter—”

“—Promised to stay with him?” the bouncer finishes for him, finally starting to soften up.  Shiro nods.  For a moment the bouncer thinks on it, tapping his thigh.  Finally, he crosses his arms, nodding seriously.  “…Alright, here’s the deal.  Security can take you through as long as you’re quick—I can only let you in for about five minutes without paying.”

Praise the gods.  “Five minutes is all I need, thank you—”

The bouncer waves him off, and Shiro hooks himself to the security guy’s side to enter the chaos.  And chaos it is: fog machines going, lights flashing, drag queens standing on designated tables bouncing to the music, bodies on top of bodies grinding all over a layer of spilled drinks on the floor thick enough that Shiro sticks with every step.  The music is loud, louder than any cell phone, and it suddenly makes sense that she didn’t pick up.  It rattles his bones as he fights through, moving with the crowd and squeezing through any gaps he can find.  Where is she?  At the bar?  Oh, god, is she drunk?!  This can’t be happening—he should have just stayed behind, sent Hunk out to find her.  He needs to be back at the hospital.  He needs to be with Keith.  God, this is just—this is a mess. 

He muscles through it, security at his side, looking through each room for a mane of familiar lavender hair.  She left that afternoon with it down, and he knows how long it takes to tame it and curl it into even a simple bun, so she _must_ still be recognizable.  She has to be.  He has four minutes to find her.

At the three minute mark, he finally has some kind of success—he finds Rolo in the middle of a writhing crowd, smooching on some dude who he probably doesn’t know.

“Oi!” Shiro yells, tapping him on the shoulder.  Rolo breaks off with a wince as he realizes who’s come calling.  Shiro is, fortunately or unfortunately, willing to overlook the fact that the two of them obviously got in using fake IDs.  He just really needs Allura.

“She’s around here somewhere, uh—look, is that her?” Rolo calls over the music, pointing off to the side.  Shiro follows his finger and there—he sees it.  A whirl of thick silvery curls, whipping back and forth under the lights and shimmering blue, then red, then green.

He claps Rolo on the back, a little harder than necessary, and starts shouldering his way through, security at his back.

The look Allura gives him is priceless—freezing where she stands half dropped to the floor, her ass pausing mid-bounce.  The pair of girls dancing with her take a moment more to realize that she’s stopped dancing and start to try and pull her off the dance floor to see if she’s okay, but Shiro gets there first, taking her by the hand and tugging her toward one of the little hallways where the music is only at seventy-five percent ear-bursting volume. 

“Do you have a jacket somewhere?” he asks, nodding to the security guy who is still at their elbow.

“—It’s not what you think—” she’s already saying, downright panicked.  In any other circumstance, it would be almost amusing—little valedictorian girl gone bad, her good girl instincts kicking in the moment she got caught.  Shiro shakes his head.

“I don’t care, we’ll talk about it later.  Right now we need to go.”

“I—okay?  Um, my jacket’s in the car—”

Shiro nods.  He pauses for a second, wondering if he should explain himself but—no time.  He pulls her toward the exit, taking them outside.  A look at his watch informs him that they now have fifteen minutes.  Two minutes to walk to the car, eight minutes on the road, another two to get up to the OR floor—it’ll be close but they’ll make it.  The bouncer gives them a salute as Shiro books it past, Allura striding confidently on her heels despite the confusion and defiance threatening to take over.

At the minivan, Shiro fumbles for his keys.  “You haven’t been drinking?” he confirms, giving her a look.  She was walking straight and true, no stumbling, so if she’s drunk she’s hiding it well.

She gives him a look.  “Shiro.”

“This isn’t a trick question, ‘Lura, I really need to know.  You’re not in trouble.”

“I’m designated driver, Shiro—”

Shiro lets out a slightly off-sounding laugh.  “Well, good, because my hand is starting to shake.”  He presses the keys into her hands, skidding around to the passenger side in the slush.  Rolo is fucked, he realizes, but to hell with it.  The guy can take a cab.

Allura makes no move to hit the unlock button, hand on her hip.  “Are you going to tell me what is going on—?” she snaps as he impatiently gestures for her to hit the fob.

“The Little Alien is coming.”

“It’s—?”

“Coming.  You’re driving.”

Instantly her face breaks free from the tight mask of stress, melting into a wide, dazzling grin that’s almost as shiny as her New Year’s dress.  “Fuck yes, I’m driving!  Let’s go.”

They go.  With palpitating heart and anxiety screeching head, Shiro lets Allura floor the gas, only occasionally backseat-encouraging her to ease up a bit.  She gets them there in six minutes flat, blazing through the parking lot and bursting through the doors in a six foot and change package of pure flaming glory, taking up at least seventy percent of the air in the room.  She turns heads left and right as she strides past in her tight, sequined dress, cut at the mid-thigh with a little slit up the side.  Her heels make her taller than Shiro, who struggles to keep pace.  He’s sure he looks like a hobbit next to her goddess-like figure—he swears he’s sweat through both his hoodie and his winter coat, his face pale and waxy.

Because it’s happening.  It’s really happening.  By the time they get upstairs, the doctors have started the prep work, shaving the kid’s lower abdomen and inserting a catheter while Hunk and Lance each hold one of his hands, the others covering their eyes, and Pidge waits outside. 

“Ah, good timing!” the doctor says, with a wide smile.  “We’re taking him in now.  We’ll do the spinal block in the OR and wait for it to kick in and then we’ll be underway!”

“Underway, we’re gonna—!” Lance repeats, then slaps a hand over his mouth, muttering to himself.  He’s obviously kicked it all the way into mania-mode, nearly vibrating where he stands.  Hunk, fingernails bitten down to the quick, gives a shaky smile and offers Keith’s hand over to Shiro, who takes it and gratefully sinks down beside him.

“Hey, bud.  I got Allura.  How’re you doing?”

Keith’s cheeks are flushed, his hair already in disarray.  “The contractions hurt, but I—”  He breathes out slowly, obviously fighting through another one.  Taking a moment, he squeezes Shiro’s hand.  “The Little Alien is going to be okay and so am I.  I’m going to do this.  There’s no backing out.”

There’s the Keith that Shiro knows and loves.  The fighter, the perseverer, the determiner.  The one who takes what the world has to offer and bends it to his will, the one who comes out the other side victorious.  The one who came to them guarded and angry, hurt by the world, and who is now pressing his forehead to Shiro’s shoulder practicing breathing techniques that Coran taught him.

They come to take him in, and he holds Shiro’s hand all the way up to the hallway doors that Shiro can’t pass.  He almost does, anyway, almost forces Allura out of her respectful place at Keith’s bedside, but she throws him back towards the others with a hand on his collar.  He watches her as the doors close, her smile his only anchor as a sea of people crash in wave after wave in the room behind her, setting up trays of instruments and erecting curtains and poking at her face to try and fix her mask.  Just before the doors finally settle against the jam, she winks one glittery eye and pulls the mask into place, turning toward Keith.

Toward the Little Alien, ready to enter the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :D


	36. Week Thirty-Four Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cuddle piles, cases of cocoa, and Zappy's introduction to the world.

It’s a little less than an hour later when Shiro is startled from his blank gaze by Allura.  He grunts, because he’s worn out from worry, which doesn’t lend much to spoken language.  Allura pays him no mind. 

“Surgery’s done.”

“Thank fuck,” Shiro says, wheezing.  He then realizes what he said, considers censoring himself, and decides that fuck it.  It’s been one of those days. 

“Well?” Lance asks, scrambling up off the row of chairs he’s claimed as his own.  “How’d it go?  What does the baby look like?  Does it have a lil baby mullet?  What’s the _deal_?”

Allura stalks to the middle of the room and steals a share of the dinner leftovers that Hunk hasn’t gotten to yet.  She opens the container, sniffing at it.  All across the room the family waits with baited breath, silently or not so silently urging her to share more information.  She gives up nothing. 

Not standing for this treatment, Lance gets down on his knees beside her, tugging on her dress in the most obnoxious way he knows how.  “’Lura, please,” he whines.  “Please please please _please_ —”

She plants a hand on his forehead and pushes him away, pursing her still perfectly outlined lips.  “If you waited _two seconds_ ,” she says, rolling her eyes, “You could ask the _actual_ _doctor_.”

“You’re going to make me wait?  Me, your favorite brother?  The pluh-uhhhhh-planetonic—”

“Platonic,” Hunk supplies.

“—yes, thank you, the platonic love of your life?  Allura, you _wound_ me.”

Allura rolls her eyes again, harder this time.  She very deliberately finishes a last bite of fa’apapa and makes a show of unwrapping a stick of gum to pop in her mouth. 

She is enjoying this way too much.  Shiro is rational enough to realize that this must mean everything went well, but there’s another part, a larger part, that just wants to _hear it_ already.

Pidge is apparently of the same mind.  “We wouldn’t have to wait,” she hisses from the other side of the room, “if Shiro would just let me _hack the system.”_  Hunched over her laptop with all her limbs crammed into the space of one measly little seat, she evokes the image of a gargoyle clinging to the edge of the roof on some ancient cathedral.  Hunk, the only one with any calm left, gives her a warning look.  She throws up her hands.  “I’m just saying!  I could do it and you know it!  We’d know right here, right now, what’s going on!”

Shiro stifles what is probably a very pitiful sounding groan.  Not again.  He can’t handle another round of this. 

Fortunately, before they can rehash the medical privacy argument for the eighth time tonight and send Shiro into meltdown mode, the doctor bustles into the room.  Looks like Shiro’s rational mind was right—with a grin the doctor lets them know that the C-section went according to plan and all is well.  Shiro soaks in as many details as he can: 

_Baby is fine.  Five pounds, eleven ounces.  No physical anomalies.  Ten fingers, ten toes.  Wailed loud enough to startle one of the med students watching the operation._

_Keith is tired and stitched up, also fine.  No complications.  Being wheeled to the recovery room now.  Asking for Shiro._

Shiro runs his hands over his face, going limp in his chair.  The kids around him immediately jump at the opportunity to ask about eight million more questions.  He, on the contrary, has but one thing on his mind—getting to his kid.  It’s still before midnight, the end of the special extended New Years holiday hours, and he _just wants to see Keith_.

“Go ahead back,” the doctor says, giving him a room and bed number.  Two people are allowed in—Hunk immediately stands up to take his place at Shiro’s side.  Everyone else will have to wait until the morning to visit.  Without a second glance, they book it down the hall, leaving the doctor to deal with Lance asking for a detailed description of the Little Alien’s hair. 

The room they arrive at is long, partitioned into teeny sections that each hold nothing but one hospital bed, a generic monitor set-up, and a single plastic chair.  Shiro counts three beds on the right side and comes upon a mussed head of black hair, propped up against pillows.  The tightness of his chest, prominent all evening, immediately eases up.  Keith is already reaching for him—they share a hazy grin. 

“Little Alien’s here,” Keith says.

“Sure is,” Shiro responds.

The two of them count down the last minutes to midnight with their heads together, Hunk beside them with a soothing hand on each of their shoulders.

That night, after visiting hours end, is a long one.  The doctor encourages the family to head home for the night, so that’s what Shiro does—bundles everyone up and stuffs them in the van, putting Allura behind the wheel once more.  All in all they’re not up much longer than they might have been on a normal New Years Eve, everyone stumbling about and slapping toothpaste on their tongues in time to get to bed around one AM.

The first one to pop back up, as expected, is Lance.  He tries and fails to sleep for about an hour before he’s poking around for space in Shiro’s bed.  “I’m so awake,” he whines, turning an entire three hundred and sixty degrees trying to get comfortable.  Shiro nods.  That he understands.

The next arrival is Hunk.  A knock, a greeting, and he’s in the bed between them, humming softly.  Shiro gravitates down the bed until he’s nestled securely under Hunk’s strong arm, the same as Lance usually does to him.  It’s nice, a balm against the softness of his bones after so long spent marinating in stress and worry.

For a while it’s just the three of them, laying there, just like that.  Not really sleeping, but not entirely awake, either.  Then, like clockwork, come Allura and Pidge.  The two of them cautiously creep in and take up the side closest to the door, leaving Shiro sandwiched in the middle of the bed.  He doesn’t mind.  He feels himself relaxing another fraction knowing the two of them are there with him.

After that is when time starts to really stretch out.  Centuries pass with the five of them lying there together.  The night grows like vines, tangling in Shiro’s conscious as he waits for sleep to come.  He listens for the telltale sounds of Hunk dropping off to his left, and Allura starting to sleep-kick on his right, but it feels like it never comes.  Even after hours of cuddling, each of them is still very much on this side of unconsciousness, still up waiting for the last body that isn’t going to come. 

It’s a strange experience, being incomplete.  Is Keith sleeping okay, so many miles away and all alone?

At a brisk six o’clock in the morning, Coran shows up at the House.  How he knew to come, Shiro will never understand.  He, at least, fills some of the empty space left when he lets himself in with a celebratory bottle of gin that he shoves in Shiro’s closet upon realizing that all the kids are in the Black Room, staring at him.  Situating himself in the chair in the corner, he does a convincing job of pretending that he wasn’t about to start day drinking before the sun even showed.

Finally, with Coran’s presence, Shiro feels the kids start to slip into proper sleep.

 

* * *

 

 

In the morning—real morning, when the sun is actually shining and the streets are populated—they get back to the hospital as soon as humanly possible, only stopping to stock up on pastries from Ms. Shay’s cafe and several 96oz hot chocolate traveler containers from Starbucks.  Shiro is already working on a cup when they burst through the doors, his head aching like the worst hangover he’s never had on a New Years day. 

They calculated their arrival very carefully: one cocoa case for the family to share, one for every member of hospital staff they disturbed on their way in.  Because yes, Shiro knew beforehand that they would roll into Keith’s inpatient hospital room like a traveling circus, and yes, House Voltron lives up to his expectations.  He’s offering apologetic cups of hot chocolate all the way up to the inpatient floor, where the nurses take one look at them and put a strict limit of three visitors at a time on their entire entourage. 

It works out better this way, Shiro thinks, as he accompanies Lance and Pidge into the room first.

“Wow, this is the first time I’ve seen you when you weren’t actually two people.”

Keith, already awake for the day, rolls his eyes.  He’s sitting up in bed, working on a bowl of waxy-looking oatmeal, looking extraordinarily normal somehow.  It’s as if the ordeal of the night before never even happened.  “Good morning, Lance,” he says.

“Oh, come on,” Pidge whines.  “Lance didn’t even say it right!  It was supposed to be ‘two people in a trench coat’, god, what do I pay you for?”

“Trick question!  You’ve never paid me!”  Lance rolls his eyes so hard his entire head rocks.  The hot chocolate in his hands sloshes dangerously.  Shiro nudges him in the back, encouraging him further inside before he can accidentally drop all 96 (now more like 88) ounces. 

Lance goes, depositing the case on the nearest flat surface before Pidge is pushing past him, elbowing him out of her way.  “And I’m never going to, your acting is horrific,” she mutters, hauling herself up onto Keith’s bed without permission.  She apparently doesn’t need it—after a moment spent staring at her with wide eyes, Keith hums in agreement, relaxing into her side.

“ _Hey_!” Lance says, getting as far as the edge of the bed and crossing his arms.  “Keep saying shit like that and I’m gonna join a union—I’ll go on strike, watch me.  And _als_ o who gave _you_ permission to get first dibs on the bed?”

Pidge raises her ring hand threateningly, prompting Lance to immediately begin backtracking.  Shiro busies himself with hot chocolate and foam cups, handing one to each of the kids in the hopes that it will keep them occupied long enough to rotate without incident.  He’s too tired for this—he’d really rather not be in the middle of a Lance-Pidge spat.

Keith, ever the wild card, sits up a little straighter in bed.  There is an idea growing in his eyes as he looks over Pidge’s shock ring. 

“Hey, Pidge?” he says.  Shiro silently begs him to not do whatever it is he’s currently thinking of doing.  _Just rest_ , he wants to say.  It’s not hypocrisy when the kid has a six inch incision in his abdomen.

Pidge turns back to her bedmate, lowering the ring from where she was ominously holding it toward Lance.  “Yes?” she asks, pleasantly.  Shiro squints, unsure where this is going.

“Does the ring really hurt as much as Lance says it does?”

Pidge’s smile grows wider, more dangerous.  This can’t go well.

“Why,” she says, all faux-innocence and silent danger, “Do you want to try it?”

And nope, nooope, this is not happening.  Shiro tries to dive in and knock Pidge’s hand away before Keith grasps it but he’s a second too late.  He watches in something akin to resigned horror as Keith winces.  Keith, at least, doesn’t shout or knock over any furniture.  He doesn’t even spill the hot chocolate in his other hand, a flat out miracle.

“It’s not so bad,” he says finally, letting go.

Lance splutters, windmilling his arms wildly.  “What the FUCK, dude, are you in _sane_?”

Shiro votes yes.  Keith shrugs.

“Okay, I’m calling it right now—there is _no way_ you’d survive getting a shock if you weren’t on bonkers amounts of painkillers right now.”

Leaning back into his pillows, Keith blinks languidly.  “Is that a challenge?” he asks.

“Hells to the YES it _is_ , Keithy Boy!” Lance shouts, waving a finger threateningly.

Thankfully, it’s at this moment that a nurse comes bustling in, interrupting the posturing session before Keith decides to do something else stupid.  Like, for instance, pull his stitches.

“Our adopters are on their way, would you like to see the baby before they come?” the nurse asks.  She has no idea what she just missed, the lucky woman.  Shiro offers her a cup of hot chocolate anyway, as a sign of good faith.

“Ooh, we get to see the baby, right Keith?” Lance asks, his eyes lighting up. 

“It’s just a baby, it looks like every other baby on the face of the planet,” Pidge says, dismissive, but she retracts the statement when she sees the _look_ in Keith’s eyes.

…They get to see the baby.

When they wheel them in in the little plastic bassinet, it’s as if the entire room has to take a moment to breathe.  They really are just like any other baby Shiro has ever seen.  Small sleepy eyes, toothless little mouth… normal.  Or it would be.  It’s just that there’s something about knowing that in another universe, another timeline, this baby would be Shiro’s first grandchild.  If Keith’s life had gone differently, they would take this little bab home with them when Keith got discharged and…

But it didn’t, and they won’t.  It’s no use thinking about the what-ifs.  Shiro soaks up the experience while he can, examining the teeny mittens they put on them and their tiny baby monolids and fuck, if they aren’t actually the cutest thing ever.  Shiro takes the little thing from the nurse first, holding them in his left arm and supporting their impossibly small head with his prosthesis, keeping the cool metal wrapped in a blanket.  He looks up, smiling.

In bed, Keith is making a face that means he’s holding back tears.  Pidge rubs his shoulder, sympathetic, and even Lance manages to keep quiet for a moment as Shiro approaches the bedside. 

Keith is reluctant to touch, that much is obvious.  Shiro offers to let him hold the baby and he shakes his head, saying he’s content to watch as Shiro passes them along to Lance.  Watch he does, however, his eyes barely leaving the Little Alien’s face the entire time.  He hardly even joins in when Pidge and Lance start arguing about what pronouns one should use on a baby.  Eventually they settle on a neutral they/them, same as Shiro has been using in his head, Lance and Shiro passing them back and forth.

“Hey, Zappy,” Lance coos, petting the dark, whispy hair on the top of their head.  Shiro has had to stop him several times from squishing the little thing’s cheeks like an old lady.  “God, how are you so fucking cute?  Nothing that came out of Keith should look this cute.”

“Zappy?” Pidge asks, a touch short of concerned.  Keith blinks for two seconds before he realizes what Lance said and flips the bird at him.  Thank god he’s hazy from his second dose of pain meds, honestly.  They really mellow him out.

Lance cups the baby’s face with a hand, holding them close and glaring at Keith as if accusing him of cursing in front of the Little Alien, forgetting the fact that he himself was cussing not three seconds prior.  “Yeah.  Zappy.  Short for Klaizap.  You know, that cute little alien from Voltron?  He was the Arusian’s bravest warrior.  You can’t tell me this little guy isn’t a fighter.”

“No, I guess you’re right,” Pidge says, walking closer and running a finger down the baby’s round little cheek.  “For once in your life,” she adds, a minute later.

Then they shuffle, and Pidge and Lance leave the room to make space for Hunk and Allura, who proceed to fawn over the baby and crash into a chair cradling their phone, respectively.  Shiro backs out to let Coran in, hanging with Lance and Pidge in the family waiting room until two frazzled, familiar figures appear at the end of the hallway. 

“Maggie!” he calls.  “Sonia!  The baby’s hanging out with Keith.  Come sit a minute.”

They do, waiting for Coran to shuffle Hunk and Allura back out of the room.  Then, Shiro takes them in.

The union is touching.  There are tears all around, Maggie and Sonia taking turns holding Zappy and thanking Keith and asking how he’s doing until Keith finally breaks, the tears coming out. 

“You’ll take good care of them, right?” he asks.  Shiro has to stand at the very back of the room, both hands over his mouth, to stop himself from sobbing out loud.

“We will,” Maggie promises softly, eyes only for the baby in her arms.

When they leave, Shiro hugs Keith as hard as he can while still being careful of his incision.

An hour short of the end of visiting hours at eight PM, the nurses inform them that they’ll have to leave soon.  Before they do, they unpack Keith’s things for him, making sure he has everything he needs for the rest of his stay. 

Pidge pauses in the middle, holding up a thick package.  “Allura, is this really what a pad looks like?”

“Yeah, but most of them aren’t that thick.  You’re in for some pretty heavy rains, aren’t you?”

Keith grunts.  “According to Shiro, the uterus reverts back to the size of a pear after you have a baby.  Tissue’s gotta go somewhere, I guess.”

The kids jump on that, asking Shiro all kinds of weird questions that he wishes he didn’t have answers to.  Somewhere along the line someone gets the idea that they should take home the placenta, a prospect that Coran is ecstatic about.  Shiro vetoes that as soon as possible.  There is no way that they’re cooking the damn thing, no, not even for the nutritional value.  “It’s used as a traditional meal in a lot of cultures, Shiro,” Hunk says reasonably, but Shiro will not be budged.  If he hears the word ‘placenta’ one more time he’s going to throw up just to make a point.

Just before eight, they settle in for their second hot chocolate vigil of the day, toasting with hot cocoa from the cafeteria downstairs.  Judging by the fact that there have been zero enraged nurses coming for their heads for violating the three visitor rule, Pidge hacked into the hospital’s system and changed it so that five people could visit at once, hiding her laptop behind her back when Shiro frowns at her.  “Shiro, isn’t it nice that we get to do this?” she says.

Yeah… Shiro has to admit that it is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I WILL COME BACK AND FIX ERRORS LATER OKAY I JUST WANT IT TO GO UP I'M SO EXCITED ONE MORE CHAPTER GUYS.


	37. Week Thirty-Five: a Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One more hot chocolate vigil.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [SOME MOOD MUSIC.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8P37wnOupFQ&list=PLjUOr6SklsIzVTglhKbZmqJyCWGZWfqM_&index=674)

Shiro has been fostering kids for nearly eight years, and he still hasn’t gotten used to the sheer number of phone calls that have to be made.  He’s expecting one soon—how long is it going to take, damnit—so when the number comes up on his phone he answers instantly.

“Coran?”

“We’re all set here.  On our way down now.”

Shiro grins, signaling to the kids waiting behind him.  Lance, Hunk, Pidge, and Allura are in the back of the minivan, waiting with various levels of enthusiasm.  Allura picks at her nails, chewing gum.  Pidge is on her laptop, but perks up at the signal.  Lance is telling Hunk some kind of story that he drops as soon as Shiro raises his hand.

“Are we ready?” Lance asks immediately. 

Yes.  Yes they are.

At the hospital entrance, Shiro pulls in as close to the doors as he can get.  There are a lot of people in the loading lanes—a lot of fender benders from New Years Day just now getting out of the hospital.  Through the throng jogs Coran, pushing Keith in a hospital wheelchair.  The kid is bundled up in a pair of overalls, ready for the ride home.  He’s still looking a little dopey, cheeks flushed higher than they normally are, but he’s steady enough as he walks the last few steps to the passenger side.  Coran helps him climb up.

“I’m ready to sleep for the rest of the day,” he says as soon as he’s in.  Hands with clean, fingerless gloves hold the seatbelt away from his stomach.  He accepts the bag that Coran hands in after him, pushing his hair out of his face.

Shiro grins.  “You can sleep for as long as you want, bud.  You did good.”

The flush goes a notch higher, Keith turning his head away so Shiro won’t see him smile.  He leans into the window and watches the people outside pass by as Coran clamors into the back. 

It both is and isn’t a mirror image of the very first time Shiro drove Keith from the hospital to the house.  It feels like it’s been a hundred years since the first night at the hospital, and a millenia since that very first night, the first time that Shiro and Keith ever met.  Keith is anything but the guarded kid who first came into Shiro’s care after running away from his last placement.  He’s as sweet as he is strong—as thoughtful as he is impulsive.  He loves as hard as anyone Shiro has ever met, and though the last eight months have pushed them both to their breaking points, they made it through.  The Little Alien was a challenge that every one of them rose to meet, and they’ve become something that can weather anything—family.

Fuck, he’s emotional.  Shiro swallows hard, pushing that down as far as it will go.  They’re still in the hospital parking lot, for god’s sake.  Get it together, Shiro.

True to his word, the moment they get home Keith plods down the hall and collapses in Lance’s bed, lying flat on his back.  He sleeps most of the day away, the only disruption a ten minute break somewhere in the middle to take more meds.  This does not appease Lance in the slightest.

“He’s slept all week at the hospital!” he whines, rolling around on the floor.  He nearly knocks over a stack of miscellaneous clutter, the stack only saved by Hunk’s reflexes.  “Why does he need to sleep even _more_?”

“Ever heard of healing?” Pidge snarks, not looking up from whatever it is she’s so focused on today.  Is it her brother’s cold trail?  Is it the weak points in the school’s security system?  They may never know.

Lance groans.  “I drink potions for that,” he says, rolling over yet again and flopping onto his back to stare at the ceiling.  He mimes playing Legend of Zelda on his DS, sound effects and everything.

Pidge rolls her eyes.

Shiro, on the other side of the room, has been inundated with phone calls.  The House didn’t have a baby shower because it wasn’t their place, what with the Little Alien having an adoption plan in place, but all the same people have been offering congratulations.  And cards.  And gifts.  And anything else they think is appropriate, including Old Uncle Louie’s oldest and most decrepit-looking welding torch wrapped in a Christmas bow.  The packages obscure literally everything that was once on display in the House.

Shiro takes it all in stride.  He’s learned by now not to let anything sit—you get your calls done in a swift and orderly manner.  Timeliness is next to blah blah and all that.  He accepts every ring, checking them off the big list before he starts making outbound calls, updating everyone they know on the news.  He chats for hours about the Little Alien’s new family and how Keith is doing well, thank you!  He ignores the irony of the fact that every time he walks past the door to the Blue Room he looks in to find the kid flat on his back, a pillow over his face, all but dead to the world.

Whatever.  The kid deserves the rest.  And Shiro deserves the pretzels he gives himself as a treat for making it through some hundred odd phone calls over the course of seven hours.  He still has some letters to write to the people he can’t call, but those can wait until later tonight, when the house is quiet.

When dinner rolls around, Shiro sends Pidge in to get Keith up.  And then, when Pidge fails, he sends Hunk.  And then Allura and the mice.  And then, as a last resort, he gives a nod to Lance, praying that nothing gets broken when Lance inevitably does his thing.

It’s close, by the sound of the grumbling as Keith limps into the kitchen and takes his seat at the table.  He puts his face right on the tabletop before Hunk can get a plate of lasagna in front of him.  “My entire body feels like dead weight,” is all he says when Pidge tries to pass him a bowl.  Pidge, looking alarmed, shoots a stare at Shiro.  Shiro shrugs.  He just had a fairly serious operation, he’s bound to feel a little out of it for a while yet.

They’re careful to give Keith space as they start eating, maneuvering around his limp form.  It takes a while, but eventually Lance coaxes his face off his place-mat and Hunk wastes no time in getting food in front of him.

“Just eat a little, you’ll feel better,” Hunk says seriously, pointing a fork at the plate.  “Lactose-free cheese and everything, okay, this meal was made with you in mind.”

That gets a smile.  And it’s true, he does perk up a bit as he eats, joining in a little as the others talk and laugh all around him.  It’s good.  It’s everything and nothing all at once.  It’s seven people, three generations, all doing their best to get on each other’s nerves either intentionally or not.

And eventually, Shiro can’t hold it in anymore.  Above the threats of shock ring zaps and uncontrollable snickering he raises his voice, calling the table to attention.  It’s time to have The Conversation.

“Keith… what now?” he asks in the silence that is quickly descending into somber.  “You’re going to finish high school—and then what?”

Shiro knows that Keith can see the desperation, the panic, the desire to drag him close and never let go that is oozing out of Shiro’s very being, so he’s grateful when Keith doesn’t just brush him off.  “I don’t know,” he says, running a hand through his hair.  His eyes are bright, flitting from person to person, despite how he has to prop his head up on a palm to stay fully awake.  When he finishes his round and realizes that every eye is trained on him, he smiles reassuringly.  “When we get there I guess we’ll have one more hot chocolate vigil to figure it out.  Right?”

One more hot chocolate vigil… one more in a long line of troubles and confrontations, of fights and flourishes.  From the moment Allura came into Shiro’s care until now—no, from the moment Shiro came into Coran’s care until now, they’ve been building something a mug at a time.  Family is one word for it, but, Shiro finds, one word doesn’t do it justice.  It’s… it’s… what do you call the place where you rest your heart at night, next to the hearts of all the people you care most about in the world?  Is there a word for that?  Shiro doesn’t think there is.

Pidge steals Keith’s free hand and winds their fingers together.  Hunk sniffs loudly—his tears are only eclipsed by Coran’s.  Lance tries to follow Allura’s lead, pretending to sit back and be cool, but a moment later he can’t contain himself any longer and jumps up to wrap his arms around Keith’s shoulders, rocking him just a little.

“Yeah, buddy,” he says, sounding strangled.  “Yeah.  We’re… _yeah_.”

“What he means is that we’d love to,” Allura says, locking eyes with Shiro as Keith pats awkwardly at Lance’s head.  Lance rocks, Hunk sniffles into his napkin, Allura laughs, Pidge swings their connected hands, and Shiro… Shiro sees all of them together and he can’t help but smile.

Just another night in House Voltron.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOLY FUCKNUGGET, THANK YOU EVERYONE FOR YOUR COMMENTS AND KUDOS. I really didn't expect this much support for a weird-ass AU that I pulled out of thin air, but here we are! I hope it was as good for you as it was for me.
> 
> If you want more, you can look forward to the next installment, One More White Candle! It should start going up sometime in the next few months.
> 
> Make sure to read the fic @crumpetz wrote!! It's linked under works inspired by this one :O  
> [And also check out this amazing art by @umbraja!](https://umbraja.tumblr.com/post/171954557136/gift-for-the-ghost-of-keith-kogane-cuz-they)
> 
>  
> 
> Cheers~

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not versed in many of the topics I'm writing in right now--if you are, for instance, intersex and would like to guide me toward better information, please do! Let me know what you think, guys.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [No Matter How Old](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15807963) by [crumpetz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crumpetz/pseuds/crumpetz)




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